Memorial Day

chapter 73-77
Seventy-Three

WASHINGTON, D.C.

It was just after 9:00 when Reimer walked into CT Watch looking more than a little concerned. Rapp had just gotten off the phone with his wife for the second time today. He apologized again, and she said she understood, even though she didn't sound like she did. He didn't like disappointing her and promised he would catch the first flight out in the morning. She said she'd be waiting for him at the end of the dock in her bikini. He laughed, she didn't. She was sick of sharing her husband, and he couldn't argue with her.

The Virginia State police, along with the various county and local authorities, had set up a series of checkpoints around the area where the vehicles had last been seen. Now that it was nightfall they were stopping every vehicle that was headed in and out of the area. If nothing turned up they were prepared to start going door-to-door come morning.

Reimer opened the door to the bridge, and instead of entering, he motioned for Rapp and McMahon to follow him. He walked straight into McMahon's office and didn't bother taking a seat. When McMahon and Rapp had joined him he closed the door firmly and said, "I just got a call from one of my people, and you're not going to like this." Reimer looked extremely unhappy.

"Apparently the CDC in Atlanta called some dipshit over at the Department of Energy this afternoon and reported a death at one of the local hospitals due to radiation poisoning." The veins on Reimer's neck were bulging. "This jackass paper pusher was more worried about getting out of town for the holiday weekend than national security, so instead of picking up the phone and calling me directly, he sent me an e-mail...One of seventy-eight that I received today, and the little idiot didn't even bother to mark it urgent."

Other than the wordradiation and the reference to the Centers for Disease Control, Rapp hadn't a clue as to what any of this meant. "Paul, I'm not following."

"This guy died from ARS...Acute Radiation Syndrome. I just got off the phone with the hospital. The doctor who treated him thinks he was exposed to a minimum of twenty thousand rads."

"And what does that mean?" asked McMahon.

"It means he was in contact with something very hot. Something you don't just stumble across in everyday life."

"Is the guy Arab?" Rapp asked.

"No. He's a Mexican American from Laredo, Texas. Apparently he picked up a load in Mexico earlier in the week and drove it to Atlanta. He dropped off his load and then went to fill up on gas, and passed out at the pumps."

"Don't tell me he brought it to the warehouse owned by the two guys we've got sitting out in Fairfax."

"Not that we know of, but I doubt it. If something this hot was in that warehouse, the WMD Teams would have picked up a whiff. We do know where the cab is, though, and the CDC has a team on the way to check it out."

"And the trailer he brought across the border?"

"We're trying to get someone on the phone from the trucking company, but their offices are closed for the weekend."

"But we know where the truck is, right?" asked McMahon.

"Yes."

"Well, he should have paperwork in the cab." McMahon picked up the phone to call the Atlanta office. "I'm going to send some agents out there to look around. You got the address?"

Reimer handed over a piece of paper with the information on it.

Rapp asked him, "So are you trying to tell us that you think there's a second bomb?"

"I don't know that for sure, but I sure as hell don't like this coincidence."

"I thought your Russian counterpart was sure only one of the bombs was missing?"

"He was sure that only one of theunexploded atomic demolition munitions was missing."

"What are you trying to say?"

"There's dozens of duds buried under the ground on that test range. Everything from demolition munitions to the big megaton weapons designed for intercontinental ballistic missiles."

"The city killers?" Rapp asked in shock.

Reimer nodded but said, "I don't see how they could have dug one of them up. We buried those things miles underground when we tested them. I'm sure the Russians did the same. It would take a pretty big operation to go after one of them."

"Does your Russian friend know about this?"

"Yeah, I already talked to him. He agreed with what I just told you so they're shifting their search over to a part of the range where they tested some of the smaller warheads for cruise missile and torpedo designs."

McMahon hung up the phone shaking his head. "The Atlanta office already knew about it, and have two agents on the way. This damn bureaucracy. We can't even communicate within our own organizations. What are we going to do when DHS gets involved in this?"

"Once that happens we're screwed," Reimer said. "They'll want to start locking down cities, and evacuating people, and in the process all they're going to do is get in the way. I've already got one of my Search Response Teams on the way to Richmond. I think we've got a real shot at finding this thing. If that truck driver died from the exposure he got from this device while it was sitting in the trailer behind him, it's got to be pretty damn hot. That means my people should be able to get a bead on it."

"What if somehow they got around this manhunt and are in the city?" Rapp asked. "You know there's a state dinner tonight."

Reimer shook his head confidently. "They'd never get it past the portal sensors. The entire city is ringed with them, and we're tied into the traffic cameras. The slightest whiff and we're on them like that." Reimer snapped his fingers.

"I sure hope you're right," Rapp said.

McMahon was a bit more hesitant. "I don't know, Paul. We've got the whole continuity of government thing to consider."

Reimer frowned. "You saw what happened earlier in the week. One little hint that the leaders had been evacuated from the city, and the press was on the story like hyenas on a half-rotted carcass. We pull him out of that state dinner right now, it'll be all over the news, and then what's to stop these terrorists from simply blowing up Richmond or Norfolk? Fifty thousand people is fifty thousand people whether it's up here or down there."

"I know, but we're talking about the president and key cabinet members and the leaders of the House and Senate."

"The vice president is out in California," Reimer began ticking names off one finger at a time. "The secretary of the treasury is in Colorado, the president pro tem of the Senate is in Kentucky, most of the Supreme Court is out of town, and almost all of the Senate and House are gone. It's a holiday weekend. We have de-facto continuity in place."

"But we're talking about the president and the secretary of state, secretary of defense, the leaders of the House and Senate and the damn leaders of Great Britain and Russia."

"I know that, but I'm telling you if we evacuate them, the press will report it, and the terrorists will find out, and once they do that, why risk coming to Washington when they've all flown the coop? Add to that the likely panic by the public, and my people have almost no chance of finding this device. The terrorists will just blow the damn thing."

Rapp thought of something Ahmed Khalili had told him during his interrogation-that they planned on killing the president. "Paul's right. They want the president, and if they know they can't get him, they'll just kill as many people as they can."

"And if they manage to get this thing into Washington and end up killing the leaders of America, Great Britain, and Russia?"

Rapp shrugged. "At least there won't be any more ambivalence about the war on terror."

McMahon looked at his friend from the CIA and frowned.

Rapp reached out and nudged his shoulder. "Relax...this state dinner isn't going to last all night. As soon as it's over I'll make sure that the president is very quietly taken back to Camp David...and if we don't find this thing by noon tomorrow he won't be coming back for the dedication."

McMahon thought about it for a moment and somewhat reluctantly said, "All right, I'll go along with it, but there's something else I think we should do." McMahon looked at Rapp. "Something I think you'll have no problem agreeing to."

Seventy-Four

VIRGINIA

He wanted to kill the scientist, but at the moment did not possess the strength to do so. Al-Yamani was on the couch in the living room resting. The disease was in its final stage. The weakness, fatigue, and nausea were nearly constant. No matter how much water he tried to drink it could not soothe his parched and swollen mouth. His throat ached and his nose, gums, and rectum had begun to bleed. Several open sores were now visible on his forearms, and his top layer of skin had begun to slough off. Part of him, the weak part, wanted to simply fall asleep and never wake up. But that could not be allowed to happen.

For too many nights to remember, a beautiful vision had come to him in his sleep. He always sailed around the same river bend from left to right. The sky was a glorious clear blue, with not a cloud in sight. Boats large and small, some with sails and some with engines, were everywhere. Large groups of people were gathered on the river bank. The mood was festive, and beyond the tree-lined banks he could see the alabaster domes and spires of a great city. The capital of his enemy. That was his destiny. That was why he was fighting to stay alive for just one more day. He wanted to come around that bend in the river, he wanted to look on the unsuspecting faces of the nonbelievers, he wanted to sail right into the very heart of them and ignite a jihad that would show the true believers the path.

Hasan and Khaled would have to be his strength. That was why he had allowed the weak scientist to order them around. When they had finished assembling the weapon, and stored it on the boat, Zubair had made them strip naked in the yard while he hosed them down with water. Using a rake Zubair had then collected their clothes and thrown them behind the garage. Then the little Pakistani had marched them into the house and forced them to take long showers and scrub themselves with soap. Unbeknownst to Zubair, his efforts to prolong the lives of his fellow Muslims would be for nought.

Now his two warriors were walking around the house in the clothes of the seventy-year-old man who had died of a heart attack. The shirt and pants that Hasan had picked fit him reasonably well, but Khaled, who was both taller and more muscular, had been forced to put on a ridiculous track suit that was too short in the arms and legs. The two of them were now in the kitchen gathering some food and water for the trip.

Al-Yamani had seen the newscasts. Mohammed had become extremely concerned when the photo and description of him appeared on the television. The decision to help his old friend was proving to be disastrous. He even went so far as to at one point tell al-Yamani that he had ruined his life. Al-Yamani began to realize that his friend lacked the conviction he'd once had. The final disappointment, though, was yet to come.

Hasan came and told al-Yamani that everything was prepared. Provisions and extra gas were on board and the boat was ready to go. Since no one else was around, al-Yamani asked Hasan to help him stand. When he was on his feet Mohammed entered the room and asked to have a word alone with him. Al-Yamani granted his wish.

Mohammed spoke without looking his old friend in the eye. "I know you have said you would like me to come with you, but I think I would prefer to stay here."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes. Someone needs to stay anyway and watch the woman."

Al-Yamani nodded as if he hadn't thought of that. "What will you say to the police?"

"I will claim ignorance. An old friend called and asked me to meet. As far as all of this other stuff is concerned...I knew nothing."

It was clear to al-Yamani that Mohammed had been thinking about this, but hadn't thought it through well enough. There were certain things he would not be able to explain. Certain things that would put the police back on their trail, and al-Yamani couldn't afford that. They had nearly 200 miles to go, and according to Hasan that would take them approximately fourteen hours.

"I am sorry you will not be accompanying us on the final leg of this mission." Al-Yamani put his hand on his friend's shoulder and the two men walked slowly into the kitchen. The woman had been moved upstairs and was tied up in her bedroom.

"I think I have gone far enough. You will be in my prayers."

"Will you stay the night here?" al-Yamani asked as he very subtly made a gesture to Hasan with his free hand.

"Yes, I think so."

Al-Yamani stopped and faced him. He placed both hands on the man's shoulders and said, "May Allah watch over you." From the corner of his eye he could see Hasan moving.

"And you my..." Mohammed never finished the sentence. Hasan had just plunged one of the long kitchen knives into the older man's back.

Mohammed slid to the floor and died in precisely the same spot that the owner of the house had earlier in the day. Al-Yamani looked at the face of his old friend and shook his head. Even those who had once been brave and great could grow weak. Mohammed was further proof of America's ability to corrupt.

"Go upstairs," al-Yamani said to Hasan, "and kill the woman. Then put the bodies on the boat with the old man. We'll dump them all in the river after we leave."

Seventy-Five

WASHINGTON, D.C.

Peggy Stealey found herself seated at the singles table in the corner furthest from where the president and his esteemed guests of honor were seated. She was joined by her quasi-date, DNC Chairman Holmes, Chief of Staff Jones, Press Secretary Tim Webber, and four other people who she didn't know and didn't care to meet. These were the cheap seats, where they put the hired help and political devotees. She should have been happy for simply being invited to a state dinner, but she found herself a bit tanked and in a bit of a foul mood.

She knew why she was tanked. It was once again the festival of Pat Holmes. He had everyone at the table laughing. He remembered everyone's name, engaged each person in conversation, and entertained all with his endless supply of witty stories. He'd even gone so far as to arrange for a tray of shooters to be brought to the table. Before dinner he'd ordered vodka and green apple schnapps, and asked all ten of them to drink to the Democratic Party as he hoisted his own glass of chilled vodka. No one dared disobey. Not in front of Valerie Jones. Not if they wanted to keep working for this administration.

Stealey also knew why her mood had soured. It was the little five-foot-nothing brown-eyed mouse sitting at the head table next to the British prime minister of all people. Her boss and his wife were basking in the bright light of their lofty dinner companions. Stealey held her head up high and caught Stokes trying to get a glimpse of her. She would always have that hold over him. He desired her far more than he had or ever would desire his wife. If he became vice president, she would sleep with him, but only once. They'd have to do it on some overseas trip where she could really work him over. An all-nighter that would leave him exhausted.

Then she'd cut him off and wait to see if he ever got the top job. That was the key to controlling Martin. She'd give him a little taste and then if he became president in four and half years, she'd give him another night to remember. What a rush it would be, to tie up the most important man in the world and dominate him.

For tonight, though, she'd have to settle for Holmes. She'd make him forget little Libby Stokes. She didn't want to go to his place, though. That would give him too much control. Her place was also out of the question. She wanted to do the leaving, not wait around for him to slide out of bed in the morning and disappear. Then she would have to deal with the obligatory note or even worse, flowers sent later that day. No, she'd have him get a nice hotel room, and if he brought up Libby Stokes again she would make him pay. In fact she knew just the move. It would take a chiropractor a year to fix him after she was done with him.

The ringing of her cell phone brought her back to the moment. Stealey opened her beaded clutch purse and extracted the phone. She was more than a little surprised to see who it was. For a moment she considered not answering, but then decided it too delicious of an opportunity to pass up. It would be oh so nice to tell the infamous defense attorney Tony Jackson that she was at the White House for a state dinner with the president of Russia and the prime minister of Great Britain.

She pressed the green send button and put the phone to her ear. "Peggy Stealey here."

The confident smirk on her face vanished almost immediately, as she listened to an absolutely apoplectic Tony Jackson explain to her in great detail, and with horrendous profanity, what he was going to do to her personally, and to the Justice Department in general.

Seventy-Six

Ahmed al-Adel had been sitting alone in his cell with the lights off for about an hour. No one had spoken to him in more than ten hours by his estimation. No reading, no radio, no TV, and no communication since he'd last talked to his lawyer after lunch. He had no watch, no way of telling time, but it seemed that they turned the lights off at 10:00 each night.

He was in solitary confinement and so had no contact with any other prisoners, and only sparse contact with his guards. They dropped off and picked up his food three times a day. He assumed they watched him from the camera mounted on the wall opposite his cell. All of this was fine with him. He had no desire to talk to anyone. Even his lawyer was irritating him. Jackson was beginning to question his story.

Worse, though, was that Jackson had already been proven wrong. The lawyer had told him that there was no way they would be able to hold him in jail over the long weekend unless they charged him formally. Instead of charging him, though, the feds had decided to hold him as a material witness. Jackson told him that the American Arab community in Atlanta, Miami, Baltimore, and New York had all been hit with a flurry of arrest warrants. This was not good news, but al-Adel didn't let Jackson know it bothered him. It was crucial that he feigned ignorance for another day. Whether he lived did not matter, just so long as his death came quickly and without pain. Al-Adel was ready to be martyred. They had promised him that his pivotal part in this operation would be properly recorded. All of Arabia would soon know of his greatness.

The clanging noise of a heavy door opening and closing pulled him from his thoughts of greatness. He could hear footsteps coming down the hallway. He wasn't sure if it was more than two people, but it was definitely more than one. Two men suddenly appeared on the other side of his bars. Al-Adel couldn't see much more than their backlit silhouettes, but he could tell by the uniform that one of them was a guard.

The guard unlocked the door to the cell and left without uttering a single word. The man who was left did not open the door right away. Instead he pulled a phone from his pocket and dialed a number.

"Are you in?" the mysterious man asked. He listened for a second and then said, "Cut the video feeds and erase anything that shows us entering or leaving the building."

The man put the phone away and began addressing al-Adel in flawless Arabic. Al-Adel sat up in his bed clutching his blanket, terror coursing through every vein. "I am an American," he said with what little courage he could muster. "I want to see my lawyer."

The man on the other side of the bars did not answer him with words, but with laughter, laughter that showed no fear of anything that al-Adel could say or do, laughter tinged with a deep anger that spoke of unpleasant things to come.

Seventy-Seven

The turning point came after the second call from Atlanta. The CDC Hazardous Material team found the truck, and it was really hot. As predicted, there was paperwork pertaining to the trip from Mexico to Atlanta. The truck's location was not far from the truck stop and upon arriving the Hazmat team quickly located the trailer. It was also contaminated but even more telling was the pile of discarded clothes, lead aprons, and radiation badges that they found behind a nearby construction trailer.

Reimer had relayed all of this to McMahon and Rapp. The team identified the source of radiation as Pu-239, or plutonium, the primary isotope used in reactor fuel and weapon-grade nuclear material. On a more positive note, Reimer was saying that, as predicted, this device was extremely unstable and throwing off a ton of radiation, which would make it easy for the sensors around D.C. to pick up.

It was after Reimer's call that McMahon had surprised Rapp. Rapp knew the veteran agent was capable of looking the other way, but what he had just proposed went way beyond looking the other way. This was breaking the law, something that Rapp was not in the slightest bit opposed to, but there would be no turning back if they decided to move forward. It would be a definite career ender for McMahon and maybe even for Rapp himself. Knowing all that, Rapp still decided to go for it. Too much was at stake to not take the risk.

Only one thing gave him pause. He could deal with accusations and deflect media scrutiny, but not if they had him on video tape. One phone call to Marcus Dumond, the CIA's resident computer hacker, allayed his concerns. A short while later Rapp and McMahon were flying Route 123 toward Fairfax.

It was after 10:00 and the area around the federal courthouse and county jail was pretty quiet. McMahon drove his FBI sedan around to the rear of the building and honked his horn. One of the big garage doors opened and they entered the sally port where prisoners were transferred to vehicles. The port was empty with the exception of one man, and he did not look pleased to be there.

McMahon and Rapp got out of the car and walked over to the man. McMahon stuck out his hand, "Joe, I appreciate this."

The man shook his head. "I hope you know what you're doing."

"If I'm wrong, which I'm not, I'll take all the heat." McMahon pointed to Rapp. "Joe, meet Mitch Rapp. Mitch, this is Joe Stewart, U.S. Marshal's office."

The two men shook hands. "Thanks for sticking your neck out like this," Rapp said.

"Yeah, well, I've known Skip for a long time and I know he wouldn't ask if it wasn't serious."

"It is, trust me."

"We'd better get going then." The Marshall led them over to a heavy steel door. After a second it buzzed and they were let in. A Fairfax County deputy was waiting for them. Stewart looked at the younger man and said, "We need Ahmed al-Adel. You've got him in solitary."

"What for?" the deputy asked.

Stewart was short, but imposing. He glared at the young deputy and said, "Don't worry yourself with what for. He's a federal prisoner. When I say go get him, you just go get him."

The deputy backed down immediately. Rapp stepped forward. "I'll go with."

The deputy shrugged. "Suit yourself."

Another heavy door was buzzed and Rapp and the deputy entered. As they walked down the hallway, the deputy looked over his shoulder and said, "Hey, aren't you that Mitch Rapp fellow?"

Rapp shook his head. "Nope. You're not the first person to say it though. I'm with the Justice Department." Rapp didn't actually think this would work as an alibi, it was just better than having to answer all the man's questions about what it was like to work for the CIA and kill bad guys.

They went down a flight of stairs and through another locked door into a quiet and darkened cell block. At the very end of the passage the deputy unlocked a cell and before he opened the door Rapp said, "I can take it from here."

The deputy hesitated. "I have to put cuffs on him. It's the rules."

Rapp smiled confidently. "Don't worry about the cuffs. I can handle him."

The deputy didn't move. "I could get in big trouble."

Rapp shoed him away. "Don't worry about it. Go back upstairs. I can take it from here."

The deputy studied the face of the man standing in front of him. He'd already noticed the bulge of the weapon slung under the guy's right arm and the thin scar on the side of his face. He was athletic and in his mid-thirties. This guy was Mitch Rapp, not some lawyer from the Justice Department.

The deputy relented and left. He knew what to do. Brian Jones was twenty-two years old and had worked at the jail for not yet a year, but in that short time he'd learned to hate the hotshot Feds who came and went almost as much as the loudmouthed animals they housed behind the thick steel bars. Jones walked back upstairs and went into the security room where he monitored the prisoners via their new digital camera system. A short while later the man claiming he wasn't Rapp came upstairs with the prisoner. He had the man by the scruff of his orange jumpsuit. The prisoner looked scared, and if that was in fact Mitch Rapp, he was absolutely right to be scared.

Jones watched on the monitors as al-Adel was put in the backseat of the sedan and Rapp got in with him. The big jerk, Deputy U.S. Marshal Joe Stewart, talked to the other man for a second and then they shook hands and the tall guy from the FBI got in the car and started backing up. Fairfax County Deputy Sheriff Brian Jones punched the button to raise the garage door and as soon as the sedan was clear he closed it. A second later his entire video surveillance system crashed and his monitors went black.

Deputy Jones didn't move and didn't dare touch a thing. He just held his breath hoping the system would reboot itself. Five seconds passed, then ten, then twenty, and then finally the cameras started coming back online. Jones wiped the sweat from his brow and sighed in relief. The system had been installed around the time Jones had started, and it had never malfunctioned like that before. The timing of the crash made him a little suspicious, so he logged into the system and began checking the archives. Everything was stored digitally.

Roughly five minutes of surveillance footage was gone. Erased from the server.Lawyer, my ass, he thought to himself.Just who in the hell did they think they were coming into his jail and pulling this shit? Jones grabbed his wallet and found the card. He had been planning to call the man anyway. The Mouth of the South was famous. He'd passed his cards around the detention center telling deputies that he was going to be looking to hire out a lot of off-duty security for the trial. Fifty bucks an hour for sitting around and reading paperback novels on his days off sounded pretty good.

Jones bet the Mouth of the South had no idea his client had just gone for a ride with the CIA. He thought about how nice it would be to make fifty bucks an hour. If he let the Mouth know what was going on, he'd have the inside track on that off-duty job for sure. Jones was already counting the money he'd make as he dialed the number.