The symbolism of the day’s attack was devastating to all of us. Not only did Cho represent the United States to the world, but Al Ayla was clearly using this incident as their foray onto the international stage. Statements claiming responsibility had come in through Al Jazeera, indicating the organization by name for the first time. Every news outlet from Jakarta to Madison, Wisconsin, had picked up the story.
Al Ayla, it seemed, was ready for its close-up. What was worse — so far they were winning.
“Today, they got us by surprise,” Evan Stroud told the assembled two dozen people at headquarters. “That’s not going to happen again. Not to anyone on that wish list of theirs.”
“Is there any thought about leaking back that we’ve got this informant?” one of the Bureau ADs asked. “Maybe to put a wedge inside the organization? Do a little dividing and conquering?”
“I’m afraid they’re already dividing.” Andrew Fatany, the analyst based in Saudi Arabia, stood up to speak. It was Fatany who had done most of the talking so far that night, breaking down what they knew about Al Ayla from the Riyadh office.
“These newer organizations are more adaptable and flexible than anything we’ve seen before,” he told us. “It’s entirely possible — I’d say probable — that Al Ayla’s already handed off some measure of control to their Washington operatives. The faster they can create these self-directed cells, the harder it is to penetrate the larger organization. In fact, it may already be too late.”
“Too late for what?” I asked Fatany.
“To ever know who Al Ayla really is. Our best recommendation is to focus on finding the local leadership, and of course whoever they’re talking to. But we have to move carefully. If we take out an individual cell, it’s like tearing the limb off a starfish. The organization simply moves on and grows another limb.”
“Hang on a second,” Peter Lindley interjected. “Are you saying we shouldn’t bring down these people — because if they stay on the loose they might lead us up the ladder? I don’t think I can live with that. And I don’t think the president can, either.”
Fatany blinked back his frustration. He was sick and tired, just like everyone else. “I’m saying, and excuse me for stating the obvious, that you need to be aware of what you’re losing when you do bring them down.”
One of the flat-topped NSA guys grunted out his own annoyance. “I say we find the sons of bitches and interrogate the shit out of them,” he said. “Use the Patriot Act, send their asses to Egypt if we have to. Our priority should be saving American lives. It’s that simple. At least it should be.”
Fatany put his hands up. He’d made Riyadh’s opinion clear on the matter. The decision about what to do with it wasn’t up to him.
“We’ll take all of this under advisement with the president,” Stroud said, trying to cut through the tension. Not that anyone could right now. This crisis was a fire that had to be put out. Period. Anything short of that was no option at all.
Meanwhile, the fire raged on, and it almost seemed out of control.
NED MAHONEY AND I trudged out of CIA headquarters around two o’clock that morning. I felt like we were leaving a cocoon, which we kind of were, but not a warm and cozy one. The president had come on the line at midnight, ten hours after the bombing of Cho’s motorcade. In the morning, he’d make an emotional national address, condemning the attack and calling on America to remember the victims for everything they’d stood for against murderers exactly like these.
“I think I liked it better when I was out of the loop,” I said. It was hard not to feel overwhelmed. My intention was to be back at Branaff as soon as possible, but there were a lot of other places I felt like I could and probably should be.
Surveillance was about to make a quantum leap in DC. Government affidavits were being written through the night, and several new Title III warrants were expected to go through as early as the following afternoon. That meant listening teams in all kinds of places they hadn’t been before — more mosques, more online networks, more phone lines, all of it. The personnel demands alone were going to be unprecedented.
“Where are you going to be?” I asked Ned.
“Quantico. Unless Hostage and Rescue has to move,” he said. “But I’ll be putting in some surveillance time, too. Your phone going to be on?”
“Only at lunch and study hall,” I deadpanned.
“I’ll call you if there’s anything to tell,” he said.
“Okay. I’ll do the same.”
We hadn’t talked about it specifically, but Ned and I seemed to have fallen into an agreement. I’d have his back on this, and he’d have mine. Before we got to the parking lot, he stopped and put a hand on my shoulder.
“It’s good to be on the same side,” he said. “I know I pissed you off for a while there, but it won’t happen again. That’s a promise.”
“Is this where we cut open our thumbs and shake?” I said. “Triple-dog swear, or whatever?”
Ned didn’t miss a beat. “I’ll pass,” he said. “I don’t know where that thumb’s been.” He grinned at me before he turned and started across the lawn toward his car. “But I will return your calls from now on.”
THE KIDNAPPER ALWAYS carried the little tape recorder with him on these pleasant hikes through the woods. You never knew when inspiration was going to strike, and it was good to capture the details when they were fresh.
Record.
“The first mile or so is just a little hilly. I can cover that stretch fast enough. Eventually, it starts to get pretty steep, up toward the ridge. That’s where I lose a little time, but I’m getting better at the climb.
“Theoretically, I could drive in from the other side, but that’s only going to happen once. By the time you’re done reading this, you’ll understand why.
“Meanwhile, I hike in the long way. Hell, maybe I’ll even lose some weight in the bargain. You can appreciate the efficiency in that, can’t you?”
Stop.
The book was coming along well. It was practically writing itself these days. Anyone with a pulse could tell you this was a huge story. Even bigger than he’d thought it was going to be at first. Interesting times, these.
He pocketed the recorder again and traded it for the recurve bow on his shoulder. The ground was getting scrubbier. It didn’t usually take long to spook something around here. He loaded an arrow while he walked and started kicking at the bushes, watching for prey, any movement at all.
Sure enough, just past the crest of the first hill, an eastern cottontail darted out.
It came right at him, God bless its tiny little brain, but then turned and bolted off in the other direction.
He let it get a good head start. Anything less than twenty yards was just fish in a barrel.
But then he raised the bow, drew back to the corner of his mouth, and let it fly.
The cottontail stumbled hard, ass over whiskers. It came to a stop in some tall grass and was still quivering when he got there. A quick snap of the neck finished it off. It took only a minute after that to truss it up with some twine, and he was moving again.
Going faster now, he jogged down the next slope and across a small ravine.
It took another twenty minutes to climb back up to the other side, where he stopped just before a line of giant spruce growing along the ridge.
Record.
“You’d never know it to look at these trees now, but they probably marked a property line at some point. Back when this was dairy country and not woods. Now it’s just our own little home away from home. It can’t compete with the White House, of course, but lucky for me, it doesn’t have to.”
Stop.
He stood among the trees for several minutes, scanning the area down below.
After he’d satisfied himself that it was safe to move out into the open, he broke through the line of evergreens and started down into the hollow, where the old farmstead sat moldering away to nothing.
THE FENCING WAS long gone. the
whole back half of the old house was sagging right into itself, almost like it was taking a final bow. And the driveway — what used to be the driveway — was just a long patch of goldenrod and buckthorn, with two ruts in the ground you couldn’t even see from a distance.
The barn was still standing, though. More or less. Thick brush and vines had made the back of the place nearly impenetrable. In front, someone had torn off the big double doors a long time ago, and the flap to the hayloft above that. With a few pieces of missing siding near the peak, the whole thing looked like a face with black gaps for orifices. He always thought of the entrance as the mouth.
Just inside, he untrussed the fat little rabbit and let it roll out onto the floor, right next to the last one. From his pack, he took a plastic travel container of granular lye and a small Poland Spring bottle he’d filled from the tap at home. He sprinkled both over the animal. The lye sped up the breakdown of tissue, and the water sped up the lye. It was an old farm trick, and a half-decent little insurance policy, too. Nothing said keep walking like a goopy carcass in your path.
Not that anyone ever came back this far anymore — but just in case.
At the back of the barn, in the last stall, he moved aside the stack of rotting wooden pallets and lifted the layers of moldy cardboard away.
There was no handle on the trapdoor anymore, but just enough gap in the floorboards to get a grip. He raised the flap and let it rest against the stall wall. Then he climbed down the ladder inside.
The root cellar — if that’s what it had been — was no more than six by six in the antechamber, and then maybe twice that on the other side of the door.
There was just enough light from above to show him the sliding panel he’d installed a long time ago. He opened it now and dropped in the granola bars and the juice boxes.
Neither of the two inside spoke to him. They’d stopped trying after the first few days. But he heard one of them stir, and a soft scrabble across the floor.
Then, “Ethan? Ethan, here.”
There was the crinkle of plastic wrappers, and the sound of them gobbling down the food. If they’d figured out what was in the juice by now, they didn’t much care.
He sat crouched with his back against the door, listening. It never took too long once the juice was gone. Their breathing slowed and became regular. Within a few minutes, they were both out cold.
Record.
“Everyone’s going to want to know what I was thinking. They’re going to wonder what kind of monster could do something like this, and they’re going to make a lot of assumptions.
“But maybe — just maybe — this is all for a reason that you can’t see right now. Did that ever cross your mind?
“I know that Ethan and Zoe don’t deserve their fate, but then again, neither did I. You think I wouldn’t rather be somewhere else right now, with nothing to say? I only wish I was that lucky.
“So, here it is. If you want to know what I’m thinking while I’m doing this, I’ll tell you. The answer’s simple. I’m thinking about my son. My love.
“What are you thinking about?”
Stop.
RYAN TOWNSEND WAS a fidgety kid. Not that I could really blame him. He had a police detective staring him down from one side, and his parents from the other. His feet never stopped swinging, back and forth, the whole time we talked.
It had taken half a dozen phone calls, but Congressman and Mrs. Townsend had finally given me some time to speak with their son. All on their terms, of course. We met on Saturday, eight thirty a.m., at their sprawling mansard-roofed house on Thirtieth Street in Georgetown.
“This shouldn’t take too long,” I told Ryan up front. “I’ve read everything you told the FBI agents already. Most of it’s about the fight between you and Zoe on the morning of the kidnapping —”
“It wasn’t a fight,” the congressman cut me off. He and his wife were both perched on a clawfoot settee across from me. “With all due respect, Zoe hit Ryan with a book and bloodied his nose. Let’s just be clear about that.”
Ryan sank lower in his chair. His bare feet scuffed the walnut floorboards a little faster.
“Fair enough,” I said. “Ryan, what I’d really like to know is how things got so bad between you and Zoe to begin with.”
“Is that even relevant?” Mrs. Townsend asked. “Surely you’re not suggesting Ryan had anything to do with this.”
“Nothing like that,” I said. “I’m just trying to learn as much about Ethan and Zoe as I can. I think your son might have a unique perspective.”
This was why I wanted to meet with Ryan alone, but that issue had been a nonstarter with his parents. They had every right to sit in, and every intention of doing so.
“Go ahead, Ryan,” his father told him. “We’ve got nothing to hide here. You can answer the question.”
Ryan took a deep breath and puffed out his cheeks. “Zoe started it,” he said. “We were on this field trip to the Air and Space Museum last year, and I left my phone on the bus. Then she gets this stupid text from me — I mean, not from me. From my phone. And she just freaked.”
“Sweetie, don’t say ‘freaked.’” Mrs. Townsend gave me a quick self-conscious smile. Ryan rolled his eyes. The congressman checked his BlackBerry.
“Anyway, she got all in my face about it and didn’t believe me when I said I didn’t do it. So I said fine. Let her believe it. Ever since then, she’s just kind of had it in for me.”
I wasn’t convinced I was getting the whole story, but more than that, I just wanted to hear Ryan tell it. His words, his memory of the details.
“Do you know what was in that text?” I asked.
“I didn’t send it,” he said right away. “I swear!”
“That’s fine. I just need to hear what happened,” I said. “From you.”
“Ryan, answer the detective’s question. Do you know what was in the text or not?” the congressman asked.
For the first time, Ryan was looking me right in the eye. He wound the drawstring of a crimson Branaff School hoodie around one finger, then unwound it. Then he wound it up again.
Finally, he said, “Do you think they’re dead?”
“Ryan!” His mother looked horrified. “That’s a terrible thing to say.”
I think he was just trying to change the subject, but I answered him anyway. “I hope not,” I said. Then I tore a page out of my notebook and slid it across the table. “How about if you write down what was in that text, and we’ll call it a morning?”
Ryan twisted around in his chair to look at his father again. The congressman nodded, and I set my pen down for him. He cupped his hand around the page while he wrote something, then turned it over and weighted it under an antique snow globe on the coffee table. For a few seconds, some glittery snow flew around the miniature Victorian house inside.
“Can I go now?” he asked.
“You can go. Thank you, Ryan. That was helpful.”
I waited for him to leave the room. Then I turned the paper over where his parents and I could see it. In a ragged, kid’s handwriting, it said, “Zoe C — I want 2 cum on yr tits.”
“Oh my God.” Mrs. Townsend looked away. “That is absolutely disgusting.”
The congressman took the paper off the table and pocketed it before there could be any question of my keeping it. “We’re going to speak with Headmaster Skillings about this — independent of anything else,” he said.
I could understand their embarrassment, but the profanity seemed like typical middle school bravado to me. Sad, but true. It was just the kind of thing a boy might write to impress his friends, sometime after the hormones started kicking in and before he really understood what it all meant. In any case, I thanked the Townsends for their time and quietly let myself out of the house.
When I got back to the car, I scribbled a single note to myself for later:
“Where is Zoe’s phone?”
I SPENT MOST of that day crisscrossing the city, interviewing other Branaff
students who knew either Zoe or Ethan and socialized with them. Then late in the afternoon, I drove up to Riverdale, Maryland, for one last stop. This one was unannounced.
George O’Shea lived on a corner lot in a gridded, middle-class neighborhood just off the East – West Highway.
I parked under the basketball hoop on his freshly black-topped driveway and went up to ring the bell.
He was smoking a cigar when he answered the door. At Branaff, O’Shea’s custodial uniform was always clean and pressed, but here he was wearing an old flannel shirt, open halfway down his chest. I could hear a game on the TV somewhere behind him.
“It’s Detective Cross, right?” he said, squinting at me through the fly-specked screen.
“Sorry to come by on a Saturday,” I said. “We’re working around the clock on this. Just a few follow-up questions if you don’t mind.”
For a brief second, he looked like he did mind, like he wasn’t entirely sure I was giving him the whole story. And I wasn’t.
Ever since I’d met O’Shea, my mind kept coming back to him. It wasn’t anything I could put my finger on. Just a vague sense that behind all the smiles and the interest in police work, there was something he wasn’t saying. It was only a hunch at this point, but I’ve taken action on less than that before.
“How’s it going, anyway?” he asked. “Any good leads, or whatever you call it?”
“Nothing I can really talk about,” I said.
He nodded and rocked back on his heels. “Right. I understand. Still, it must be interesting work, huh?”
I watched him through the door. What was he thinking about right now?
“Do you mind if I come in?” I asked.
“Oh — yeah. Of course,” he said, like it hadn’t occurred to him. “I was just ruining a pot of coffee. You want some?”
“No thanks. I’ll try to be quick here.”
He thumbed over his shoulder as I came in. “Let me just switch off the machine. Make yourself comfortable.”