He started whistling an old Algerian song, as he added up all the money he’d put aside into the several accounts he knew no one would ever find, buried under a tangle of intertwined corporations. It reminded him yet again that he had more than enough to relocate to Sorrento, Italy, when all of this was done, to the villa he’d bought there four years ago. It sat right on a cliff overlooking the sea, and he would put up his feet on the exquisite railing, sip his wine, and settle his soul. Only then would the Strategist slowly return to his business. It would be more difficult with the imam in prison, but his reputation as the Strategist would be enough. Their followers would fear and respect him still. Blowing apart the FBI agent who had helped send the imam to prison, along with her family, would help convince them.
He knew she alone wasn’t responsible for his lost career as one of the greatest assassins of all time, his lost jet, his lost penthouse, but killing her was a start. He hummed, picturing the bitch blown to hell.
CRIMINAL APPREHENSION UNIT
HOOVER BUILDING
WASHINGTON, D.C.
Tuesday afternoon Savich sat in his office in the CAU, waiting for his cell to ring as the half-dozen agents outside, ready with their assault gear and their Kevlar jackets, waited for his word. The wireless carrier wouldn’t locate the phones the FBI was looking for without a warrant. So he’d thrown a Hail Mary and called his friend Clint Matthews at the District Court U.S. Marshals office. The Marshals Service owned a Cessna they flew over the District when they needed to find a fugitive by tracking his cell phone. The plane carried its own imitation cell tower they called a dirtbox, which could trick cell phones below it into giving up their unique identification codes. Matthews has bragged he could find any powered-up cell phone in the area to within three feet.
Savich’s phone rang seventeen minutes after his call, and Clint was on the line, nearly hyperventilating. “We found the phone, the one that was called here in Washington. It’s in Georgetown, Savich, not a mile from where you live, in that new condo complex, the Gilmore. We got the address on Nyland Drive Northwest, even the unit number—338. You want some of our guys with you or do you have to settle for your FBI wussies?”
Savich laughed. “I owe you, Clint. Big-time.”
“Nah, if this helps net the lowlife terrorist who tried to blow up Saint Pat’s, this’ll be a huge win for all of us.”
Savich was out of his office before he’d punched off his cell.
THE GILMORE
1188 NYLAND DRIVE NW
GEORGETOWN
Tuesday afternoon
Everyone called the three side-by-side identical buildings on Nyland Drive the new Gilmore condos, though they were, in fact, built in 2003. Each was three stories high and done in mellow red brick, with parklike, beautifully landscaped grounds to attract the upwardly mobile young professionals who had bought up most of them.
There were single residences across the street, with no space between them for parking. Their owners’ cars usually lined the street, but now in the middle of the day when nearly everyone was at work, the street was mostly empty and quiet, with very little foot traffic. Savich assigned four agents to the grounds near the building and across the street, asked them to stay out of sight or blend in, though he knew it would be difficult for them to remain unnoticed for very long. He walked up three flights of Berber-carpeted stairs with Ollie and Ruth and down a long hallway to the end unit, 338. Savich hadn’t called the manager to try to bludgeon him into giving up information about who’d rented unit 338. He’d decided it was too risky. He couldn’t spare an agent to stay with the manager to make sure he didn’t call his wife or his girlfriend, or anyone else who might surprise them by showing up. They’d know soon enough who was waiting for Samir Basara.
They met no one on the stairs or hallways, heard nothing from the condos they passed, everyone was at work. Still, they walked as quietly as possible when they neared the door. Savich pressed his Glock to his side, smiled into the peephole, and knocked on the door. “Pizza delivery.”
A deep voice with a light Arabic accent mixed with pure Brooklyn called out, “You have the wrong address. I did not order pizza. Go away.”
Savich nodded to Ruth and Ollie, stepped back, and sent his foot into the doorknob. The door flew open as Ruth yelled, “FBI, don’t you move!”
They saw a dark-skinned man dive for cover behind the sofa in the living room to their right. He fired three quick shots toward the door, but they’d pulled back behind the wall in the doorway entrance. They heard movement down the apartment hallway in front of them. Someone else was there.
Savich called out, “Both of you, including you in the bedroom, come out now. There’s no way out of here. You’re surrounded.”
They heard a window open and the metallic clang of someone jumping onto the fire escape.
Ollie said into his comm, “Dane, a perp is headed your way down the fire escape.”
The man in the living room poked his head out again around the other end of the sofa and emptied his magazine in their direction. They heard him slam in another magazine. That was too bad, no choice. Savich nodded to Ollie, who pulled a flashbang from his jacket, pulled the pin, and tossed it into the living room. The three of them pulled back into the hallway and pressed their palms over their ears against the shattering blast to come. The explosion of sound and light was horrific in the small space.
They heard the man wheezing and coughing. He rolled on the floor, his hands covering his face, his gun on the floor beside him, forgotten.
Ruth ran into the living room, flipped him onto his stomach, and cuffed him.
He was gasping, tears streaming from his eyes. “I’m dying, I’m dying.”
Ruth swatted his head. “No, you’re not. It was only a flashbang, no shrapnel, so stop your whining.” She dragged him to his feet and shoved him onto a chair. As Savich and Ollie checked the back of the condo, she PlastiCuffed him to the chair. He was still wheezing, tears running down his face. She imagined he hadn’t heard a word she’d said, his ears still ringing from the flashbang. She walked to the living room window and saw Dane hauling a man out front toward Griffin. He was very young, not much older than her stepson Rafe. She turned back and stared down at the man in the chair. He had something of the look of the young man downstairs, wide-set eyes, a strong chin, hair black as ink. “You want to give me your name?”
He tried to spit at her.
“That was rude,” Ruth said. She gave him a wide berth and came up behind him, stuck her hand into his back pocket. She pulled out his alligator-grain wallet.
Savich and Ollie searched the condo together, a room at a time. The first bedroom had a king-size bed and clothes strewn around on the floor. It looked like both men had slept in there. The bathroom was a jumble of dirty towels and smelled of toothpaste and musty aftershave lotion. The second bedroom was neat as a pin, except for the open window that gave onto the fire escape.
Was this bedroom waiting for Basara? While Ollie checked the fire escape, Savich opened the closet door and found a stash of handguns, six of them, all of them Glocks. He knelt down and picked up several packets of what looked to be C-4, the same explosive that had blown the TGV off the tracks and that they’d used at St. Patrick’s and St. Paul’s. He stilled, felt rage surge. So you bastards were going to bomb us? Our house?
He and Ollie met Dane coming through the front door with the young man he’d jerked from the fire escape, cursing nonstop. Savich pointed to the sofa. “Ollie, cuff him. Dane, those shots and the flashbang are going to pull police and fire here any minute. Call nine-one-one, cancel the calls. Tell D.C. Metro to keep their squad cars well away from here. Find the manager, have him help you clear the street of any onlookers. Basara could be close now.”
Savich looked at the freshly shaved young man and smelled the same aftershave lotion in the bathroom. He was still cursing softly, repeating himself now. Savich stepped up to him and said, “Shut your mouth.”
The young man was so startled, he shut his mouth, looked up at Savich. “What are you going to do, hit me? American policemen can’t do that.”
Savich said, “I can do anything I want to you. What’s your name?”
The young man shut his mouth.
“Let’s see what your dad has to say about bringing his son into this.”