As if it knew she’d arrived back in civilization, her phone chirped to tell her she had missed messages.
“Guess I better hear what Fletcher has to say before we tackle either.”
She hit 1 for her voice mail and listened.
There were actually two messages, one from her best friend back in Nashville, Taylor Jackson, who was checking to make sure Sam was okay. She’d call her back later, they had things to talk about, to catch up on. The second was Fletcher, with an ominous, “Call me the minute you get this message.”
“Uh-oh. That doesn’t sound good.”
“What’s the matter?” Xander asked.
Sam was busy dialing Fletcher back. She held up a finger. Fletcher answered right away, his voice jubilant.
“We think we got him.”
“The Metro killer? Wait a minute, let me put this on speaker so Xander can hear.” She pressed the button then asked, “Who is he?”
“Moroccan national. FBI’s been tracking him, working on a deal with him for months. He dropped off their radar last week, they figured they lost him. D.C.’s been locked down tighter than a drum, no one was getting another attack through. They mobilized everything when they figured out who it was. He was online overnight saying his goodbyes, they picked up the chatter, and they popped him this morning heading to the Capitol with a vest on full of explosives. We found a backpack in a Metro Dumpster that had an address, and found his apartment. It was full of bomb-making materials, and other stuff that’s being tested right now. The bombs he was making weren’t real, of course, he’d been duped. The FBI’s been posing as al Qaeda agents and recruited him to do a bombing. Looks like he might have branched off into the abrin without them knowing. It will be on the news any minute now.”
“That makes no sense, Fletch. That he’d been able to manufacture the abrin, slip their grasp and plant it in the Metro?”
“That’s how it all looks, though. We found a canister at his place that could have been used to fill an aerosol can—they’re testing it right now—plus workman’s clothes from the subcontractor who’s laying the Silver Line. The Metro cameras have spotted the suspect leaving the Rosslyn station, he matches the build of the Moroccan. They’re looking through the Dumpsters for more. It’s starting to look like an open-and-shut case.”
“So he was working with more than just the feds on his plans?”
“We’re looking into that.”
“A self-actualized radical? Or part of a group?” Xander asked.
“Loner, it seems. You know how they crawl up out of the gutters. He’s been in the country for over five years, came over on a student visa and dropped off the face of the earth. According to Bianco, he got on their radar a couple of months ago wanting to execute a major attack, and their agents strung him along. They figured he’d been tipped, that’s why he went to ground, but he was just getting his rubber ducks in a row.”
“And the ties between Ledbetter and Conlon? And the congressman’s background issues? Just happenstance?”
“It’s a small town, Sam. The good news is, you’re off the hook. You and Xander can come home without any worries. Bianco won’t make any trouble for you. Listen, I’ve got to go, wrap up a few things. But call me later.”
He hung up, and Sam looked at Xander. He had his hands on the steering wheel and was contemplating them, squeezing first one, then the other. Sam had seen him do that before. It signaled he was lost in thought.
“Well, that’s good news, don’t you think?”
He looked over at her. “Absolutely. If they’re right.”
“Meaning?”
He shook his head. “FBI and Homeland need to save face. An attack happened on American soil on their watch. It’s not fair, because they prevent a ridiculous number of attacks, but the only time they make the news is when one slips through their net and something bad happens. You notice they’re releasing more and more information about events they’ve thwarted? PR, pure and simple. They have a thankless job, and the people of our country haven’t the first clue just what happens behind the scenes to keep them safe so they can drive their minivans and go to the movies and complain about their injustices on the internet.”
“I follow. What are you saying?”
“If a Moroccan national committed this crime, I’ll eat my hat.”
“You’re not wearing a hat.”
“Euphemism. I have plenty back home. Seriously, Sam. No way. No way.”
“Xander, I hardly think the entire jurisdictional force of the JTTF and the FBI and Homeland are going to make a mistake. Why do you think they’re wrong?”
“You don’t?”
“I asked you first.”
He wrapped his hands around the steering wheel again, sat in silence.
“Xander, I think you’re keeping something from me. What’s going on in that gorgeous head of yours?”