The Ragnarok Conspiracy (7 page)

John Savas stepped up the curb onto the sidewalk in front of 26 Federal Plaza. He wore a dark suit and sunglasses, and carried a coffee in one hand and the
New York Times
and his briefcase in the other. As was clear to anyone who knew him, the tension of the last few weeks had begun to extract a toll. His shoulders sagged slightly, and behind the sunglasses, his eyes were bloodshot from lack of sleep.

He swung into the main entrance of the FBI building, keeping his coffee level while dodging exiting and entering figures, rarely taking his eyes of the page he was reading. He glanced up at security, nodded toward the well-known faces, handed off his items, went through the required checks, grabbed his items, and found his place back in the article as he approached the elevators.

Several figures were waiting in line. He smiled, glimpsing a young woman with waist-length red hair. Today she wore a bright-green dress complemented by red sneakers, and stood apart from the crowd waiting for the elevators, staring straight up at the wall to her left and seemingly caught in another trance of some kind. Savas glanced back down at his article and slowed to a stop behind her.

“Greetings, Kemo Sabe,” the young woman spoke.

“Someday I'm going to learn how to sneak up on you, Angel.”

“I doubt that, John.”

“Yeah, so do I.”

“You look like shit.”

Savas laughed. “Thanks, doll. I'm looking forward to the weekend and a little rest.”

“Sorry to hear that,” said Lightfoote, moving toward the elevator.
Before Savas could process her words, the bell rang and the doors opened.

As soon as Savas stepped out of the elevator onto his floor, he knew something was wrong. The normal rhythms of work were completely out-of-whack as agents darted from place to place among a din of rising voices. Already he could see Kanter in the back pointing and shouting commands; then, spotting Savas, he called him over with an imperious wave of his hand.

“See you soon, Captain Overlord, sir,” Lightfoote said sweetly.

“What?” asked Savas distractedly, but by the time he turned to look, she was already flitting across the room. Savas spilled his coffee over his
New York Times
, cursed, and marched forward after dropping both in the trash.

Kanter was in prime form. Already his tie was askew and his receding gray hair hung in growing disarray. A fire burned in his eyes, and his jaw jutted forward, signaling that he was in the crazed problem-solving mode that made him so skilled as an administrator, as well as such a pain in the ass. Kanter didn't waste any time getting to the point.

“This is it, John!” he said, grabbing the ex-cop's arm in a vicelike grip and dragging him across the room. “No drill. We have a bona fide event right now in New York City.”

“What?” sputtered Savas. “An attack? Today?”

“That's right. Looks like it's down by the UN—not the UN proper, thank goodness. We have some confirmation on that, at least. But in the immediate area. Set your team up now, John. I want everything you can get on this pouring in ASAP.” Kanter left his side and stormed off toward another team.

Savas headed toward the Operations Room for Intel 1. On his way he banged on the office doors of his group members. “Let's go! We need to move right now to the OR!” Of his six team members, only the angular form of Matt King emerged.

“I supposed from all this chaos that we must—”

“Shut it, Matt. Mail me the essay. This is real. Let's move.” Savas turned and nearly crashed into the hairy form of Hernandez.

“Manuel, please, to the Operations Room. This one looks real, and we might just burn through all the wires you duct-taped together. I need you in there making sure we fly straight; you got it?”

“I'm on it.”

“Please don't tell me we're running any beta versions of anything.”

“I live by a don't-ask-don't-tell policy for software, John.”

Savas stared harshly at the ceiling for a moment. “The system better not crash.” He pushed past Hernandez and felt him following behind as they headed to the Operations Room. Along the way, they were joined by J. P. Rideout and Frank Miller. The four strode into the OR.

“OK, where's Rebecca?” asked Savas, glancing around the room with some anxiety. Over the last few years, he'd come to count more on Rebecca Cohen than on anyone in the group. Her sharp mind, grounded personality, and holistic way of thinking kept the team focused with the right perspective. She was also a whiz with the crises system Hernandez had set up. Today would be a bad day for her to call in sick.

“I'm here, John,” she said, whisking into the OR. He breathed easier.

“All right, now if we can only get Angel in here, we can start to break this thing down.”

Hernandez tugged on his arm and pointed across the room. Savas followed his hand to the end of the half-moon desk. Lightfoote sat there; somehow she had entered before they had come in, or perhaps she had floated in like some ghost without anyone noticing. As he looked at her, she paused her furious typing to raise a hand, eyes still on the screen, giving Savas the thumbs-up.

Aside from Savas and Hernandez, the remaining members of Intel 1 were busy logging in and bringing up the system. Awaiting commands from Savas, some were already running the analysis software.

“OK, folks, all I've got for the present is that there was an attack Midtown East by the UN. Rebecca, let's bring up the police and fire data. Angel, can you get a live satellite view up?”

An enormous projection screen was draped over the far wall, some ten feet in front of the table. It flashed to life, showing five smaller
sub-divisions superimposed over a larger background. One screen, corresponding to Lightfoote's terminal, blinked and came to life, displaying a view from space. It quickly zoomed into the island of Manhattan just south of the Queensboro Bridge. Smoke obscured a region of several blocks near the United Nations building. Other screens flashed and showed a stream of text—emergency bulletins from several New York City agencies.

“Excellent. Rebecca, why don't you run the link to Larry's office and dump the live feed. OK, what do we have folks?”

In the time it took him to say these things, several of the other screens flashed on, revealing varied scenes. One was cutting between local and national coverage of the event on television. Another was funneling information from Internet search engines through one of Manuel's algorithms.

“Explosive device, John,” Cohen called out, processing the information and integrating it faster than anyone. Lightfoote cut in, “Second Avenue, near the plaza. Can't see through the smoke.”

An altered image of the scene displayed in false color revealed no obscuring smoke but rather illuminated solid structures—buildings, cars, and rubble—in an eerie green.

“Filtering it through the IATIA satellite, looks like a hole…there!” King called out. Several intakes of breath were heard over the clacking of keyboards.

“Damn,” said Savas. “Something was blown to hell and back.”

Immediately, another image of the area occupied the screen controlled by Rideout. It showed the same region, in real color and without the hole.

“SAT photo before the bombing, sometime last week,” Rideout chimed in. “It's the corner of Second and Forty-Sixth Street.”

“OK, people, what is it? Let's find out what was in that hole.”

Cohen leaned back. “John, fire department chatter confirms what we're seeing. There was a massive explosion. There is some severe damage, and there are reports of many injuries and secondary carnage from car fires and falling debris.”

“Well, they've come back to visit again, folks, that much is clear. Anyone know what the hell they hit yet?”

“Got it! It's a UN office building. 866 Second Avenue,” said Rideout. An image flashed, showing a tall, black-glass building. “Damn. I'm getting one international office located there after another: representatives from Ecuador, Greece, Guyana, Honduras, even the Saudi General Consulate…they're spread out on different floors and offices.”

Miller muttered, “I don't think it's gonna matter what floor those poor bastards were on.”

“No, indeed,” echoed Savas. “OK, so, what we have is an attack on UN personnel, a UN building for all practical purposes, with enough shit to take the entire building down.”

“Structural damage to neighboring buildings is minimal from both the SAT and chatter, John,” said Cohen.

“OK. Your point?”

“Well, they didn't use airplanes this time, that's for sure,” said Miller.

Cohen nodded. “This was a surgical strike, John. Whoever did this managed to obliterate an entire building in midtown Manhattan without much collateral damage. Unless they got supremely lucky, we're looking at some very highly skilled munitions work.”

“I guess they've been busy in those caves all these years,” said Savas, turning toward the screen. “Manuel, what do we have in terms of munitions analysis?”

“Ah, John, that isn't exactly anything I know much about or that can be done easily with software. We'll need to farm this out to forensics.”

“Yeah, figured. But that means we're waiting as usual to sift through the aftermath. This is in real-time, folks. OK, what else can we pull out of this?”

“CNN, Fearless Leader,” said Lightfoote.

Her terminal cut to a live broadcast from the news organization. A reporter stood before a mob of people kept at a distance by police and fire department personnel, who themselves were partially obscured by pouring smoke. The reporter's words were barely audible over the sound of sirens and voices.

“…about half an hour ago, Brian. This is as close as our crew was able to get. As you can see, there is simply an incredible amount of smoke, and the building lies in complete ruins. Onlookers report an enormous explosion, or series of explosions. One elderly woman said the ground shook and she nearly fell.”

“Doesn't look like Second Avenue to me…” started King.

“It's not,” said Savas. “It's not even New York. Go to full screen, Rebecca.”

The image grew to fill the entire projection screen. People were running in all directions while the reporter continued speaking. Savas grabbed a chair, flipped it around so that its back faced him, and sat down as he listened to the footage. His hands gripped the chair back tightly.

“I'm sorry, Brian, it's just chaos here; I can't hear you. Let me repeat, there has been a major explosion at the Saudi Arabian Embassy here in Washington, DC. None of us can get close enough to see what's going on, but from what we can see, it seems that the embassy has been severely damaged…of considerable power.…Police and fire crews…uncertain…injuries…” The transmission was breaking up slightly. King used this moment to speak.

“John, I've got this on the SAT.”

“Put it up.”

The green-colored image occluded a portion of the news feed. Next to it, King superimposed a photograph of the Saudi Embassy from space. In the false-color image that cut through the smoke and clouds, the results of the explosion were obvious to all.

“My
God
, the whole thing's gone,” said Rideout. “Just like here. This is like some 9/11 replay. They're hitting us in New York and Washington at the same time.”

Rideout's words were like blows to the stomach. Savas felt himself become unhinged in time.
Towers like sand crumbling in the wind. Falling, falling slowly, a million tons of concrete and metal…and flesh and bone. Police beneath, young officers, daughters…sons. Beneath a mountain falling…

Cohen's voice became a lifeline.

“John, you're not going to believe this.”

Savas's eyes, unfocused and in another time, turned toward her and became completely alert. She was holding a cell phone.

“One of the agents guarding the Sheikh is on the phone. They lost him. Two of them are down. Somebody took them out, and the Sheikh bolted. Our man is wounded. He doesn't know if the Sheikh is alive or dead.”

The group sat still in the dim lighting and bright screens of the Intel 1 crisis center, listening silently to a cell phone message play over the speaker in the room. They heard a strained voice, winded, the man obviously hurt and struggling to speak.

“They knew we were there,” he panted. “Shots came—Jones and Richards went down. I think they're dead.” He coughed, a harsh and grating sound. “I'm hit, but I can move. The rat ran. I tried to follow,” he paused, out of breath, requiring several seconds to speak again. “Couldn't keep up. Trace my cell. I need help. Losing blood.”

Cohen stopped the playback. Her voice was soft and flat. “We have an ambulance on the way.”

All eyes in Intel 1 turned to Savas. On the screens were the continuing images of the terror attacks: flashing lights of emergency vehicles, smoke, and statements to the press from US and foreign government officials. A voice called out that Kanter was on his way down.

“All right, people, we literally have the world blowing up around us. Let's think carefully but quickly.” Savas paced around the room, talking as much toward the floor and ceiling as to the members of his team. “We have major attacks in New York and Washington, coordinated attacks, unlike anything since 9/11. The FBI, the White House, the nation will demand that the majority of our resources be focused on these attacks—and they're right. So, unless Larry countermands me on this, I want most of you busting your asses to get everything you can on these bombings. However, if anything, this ambush on our protection squad convinces me that we are onto something. It may be too late—the Sheikh may be dead. But we don't know that. I'll
work with Frank to try to locate him, intercept him, and bring him in if he's not already flower food. Any objections?”

“Damn inconvenient timing!” barked Kanter, who was standing in the doorway listening. “Your contact surely excels in planning, orchestrating his near murder right as we scramble to cover this nightmare!”

“Someone may indeed have a sense of timing, Larry, but I don't think it's the Sheikh.”

Kanter waved off Savas's anger. “You and Miller go, and try like hell not to get yourselves killed if you find him—these boys out there are
not
playing around. Meanwhile, Intel 1 will be a little short-staffed but will sacrifice increasing amounts of their lives, or at least sleep, to make up the difference.” Kanter turned toward the group, focusing on Rebecca. “Agent Cohen, I assume that you have no objections if I elevate you to temporary group leader in John's absence?”

“No, Larry, of course—”

“Good. Because I've got more calls than I have call-waiting circuits, and I don't have time to babysit you people. Your job is to figure out what the hell happened, who's responsible, and, if possible, have them in custody this evening.”

“We'll do our best…sir,” said Cohen.

Kanter frowned and stormed out of the room.

Savas looked at the ex-marine and sighed. “OK, Frank, you and I will carve out a little corner of the OR. The rest of you—Rebecca has the wheel.”

Cohen nodded but instead walked over toward Savas and pulled him aside. He blinked. She almost looked angry.

“John, you were unconscious after Indian Point for
two days
. You suffered radiation sickness and a broken rib. Do you think you need to be chasing this street punk and those assassins down while all the rest of this is going on? Is this mission really that critical?”

“Yes, I think so. Something important is tied into this.” He tried to calm her. “Look, we'll be careful, like Larry said. We know there are some nasties buzzing around this one.”

She just stared at him disbelievingly. “Sure, zero to sixty in 5.4
seconds, crashing explosives with a forklift in a radioactive death cell. Was your monster truck trick careful, too?”

Savas was taken aback. “Rebecca, I did what I had to there! Those explosives were rigged to blow. The cooling rods were completely exposed!”

Cohen nodded but with a frown on her face, her eyes distant. “John, it's not the details. It's the pattern. This is becoming a habit, don't you think?”

“What is?”

“You nearly getting yourself killed on every case.”

Savas looked away. This was a direction he didn't want any conversation to go. Not now, with buildings coming down and contacts on the run. Not with Rebecca.

Miller delivered him. The muscled agent strode up to the pair. “John, let's move. Manuel let me have the keys to the car, and I'm bringing up the tracking system. Let's see where he's running.”

Savas avoided Cohen's gaze and followed the ex-marine. Maybe the Sheikh wasn't the only one running.

There was a counterpoint of activity in the room as the majority of Intel 1 continued to focus on the unfolding terrorist attacks. Savas and Miller commandeered a terminal and went to work tracking down his contact.

“Manuel has transferred control of our communications software, John,” Miller announced, typing furiously on the keyboard. “I
think
I know what I'm doing with it. Look—
here
! His phone has a GPS, and we can track him. He's in Queens, apparently not moving—assuming, of course, that it's him alive with the phone.”

“Try the cell. If he's stopped running, he might answer.”

“Punching it, using your number as the caller,” said Miller. “I'll run a general scan on the phone as well.”

The digital tones of the dialed number played over the small computer speakers. There was a click, and a voice answered.

“
Fuck you
, G-man!” came the welcome. “A lot of good your muscle did me.”

“
Shut up, Rasheed!” yelled Savas into the computer microphone. “We've got agents dead who were covering your ass! We need to come in and get you.”

“You'd better!”

“We will!”

“They know; it all started after I talked to you.”

“What started? Who's
they
, Rasheed?”

“Fuck that! No time! I need protection! Your men are down, useless. I need to come in!”

“OK, Rasheed, we know where you are.”

Miller covered the microphone and whispered to Savas “John, so does someone else. His cell's being tracked.”

Savas felt a surge of adrenaline. “Who?”

“Checking…no one legit!”

Christ!
“Rasheed, you've got to hang up and call me from another cell, a new cell, prepaid, or a pay phone. Your cell is tagged. They're tracking you.”

“
Fuck!
” The phone went dead.

Miller turned to Savas. “He'll move from there; he's smart. He'll call us when he's got another phone.”

Savas nodded. “I hope so. Meanwhile, we know where he is, so let's get there.”

“Yeah,” said Miller, “before someone else does.”