“Good. Now start picking targets that fit into that view. Call the names, if you know them, or describe them and we’ll figure it out.”
Her stomach cramped as Georgie again lifted her camera to make another, more deliberate sweep of the city below her. Sweat dripped into her eyes, blurring her vision and making them sting. She couldn’t afford to choose the wrong target. Frank had put her here for a purpose. She sucked in a breath and held it to stop the hard trembling of her hands that made the camera jump and bounce so that a clear image was impossible.
Looking wasn’t enough. She wasn’t a looker. She was a photographer. She needed to take pictures.
Track and click. Track and click. She began to take pictures, as if doing a sweep for a panorama.
She took photos of distant objects first. As she did so she called out possible targets with high impact, naming the ones that she recognized. “The Francis Scott Key Bridge. The statue of Theodore Roosevelt on Roosevelt Island. The U.S. Marine Corps Memorial, I think. The Saudi Arabian Embassy.” At the end of her first photo sweep, at the far distant south, she said, “The Lincoln Memorial. That’s it. But none of them feel right. Let me start again.”
All of a sudden, as she was preparing to shift away and begin another sweep, a nearby object came into view so close she had to adjust her lens for less distance. A chill swept through her as the object came into focus.
“Oh, god, Brad. I think I know where Frank set the bomb. The Kennedy Center. It’s directly across the street below.”
***
Brad and Zander, already on the street, ran for the Kennedy Center, alongside more SWAT team members.
The streets were a tangle of emergency and law enforcement vehicles of every stripe. Adding to the congestion were military helicopters as the arduous task of clearing the area of civilians was underway.
The Kennedy Center was a huge complex but instinct told Brad to start his search in the center of the building. He and several other K-9 teams surged in behind swarms of SWAT teams who deployed as quickly as possible throughout the corridors of the building. While others peeled off, he followed a team moving quickly from the north side entrance of the building down the Grand Foyer.
Time was of the essence and every person there knew it. They had no assurances that they would find the explosive device before it detonated. But that was the job they trained for and were prepared to do. No matter the cost.
His heart beat heavy in his chest but Brad took long deliberate strides, pausing whenever Zander did to sniff a corner, or the leg of a display, or the edge of a drape. Zander moved swiftly but did not run. Hurry caused mistakes and accidents. And there was no room for error.
Finally, the golden Lab stopped short at the shallow carpeted steps leading to the Opera House.
“I think so, too,” Brad whispered as he bent to pat and reassure his partner. “Boots, is Frank an opera fan?”
“Yes. He has regular seats. Do you think—?”
Brad stopped listening. “Find me the seat number of Frank Keller’s Opera House season tickets.”
Moving together they climbed the shallow stairs, Zander’s nose high as he sifted the air for clues.
Guided by a sense that they could not fail, they began searching the back rows of the theater. Before they were done, two more K-9 teams joined them, taking on the rows on either side of the main aisle. Undeterred by the competition, Zander worked the rows until, suddenly, he barked, paused, sniffed hard around a seat, then jumped over it and the next one in front of it. Brad followed, jumping like a hurdler after his canine. Zander paused, sniffed lightly, stiffened, the ridge of hair on his body standing high. He sat, then dropped to his belly with head on paws.
Brad drew a careful breath. “We got a live one. Send in the bomb squad.”
“I’ve got the seat number,” a disembodied voice said in Brad’s ear.
“Roger that. So do we.”
Chapter Eleven
Georgia didn’t bother to notice the pair crossing the bridge on the road overhead. She was engrossed in using a telephoto lens to record red in Rock Creek Park. The day was cool and gray, a reminder to those who like to boast that D.C. was a Southern city that winter still had a say here. The first chill of things to come pinked her ears as the middle of November settled in.
Georgie wore a hoodie over well-worn jeans and a Henley. Beneath the soles of her booties, pebbles rolled and skipped as she made her way along the creek bed in a secluded section of the park casual visitors seldom saw. A few maples still clung tenaciously to their final deep-mahogany-red leaves. In the underbrush waxy red pyracantha berries winked at her. Near the waterline of the narrow creek a cardinal plucked orange berries from a bush. Close enough.