Page 43 of The Last Days

  “Does the Gibraltar governor even know we’re here?”

  “I doubt it, not unless Downing Street told him. We certainly haven’t.”

  “Fair enough—what’s for dinner?”

  “I don’t know. It’s a surprise.”

  A G5 took off from Charles de Gaulle.

  It cleared the outskirts of the sprawling city, then banked southeast toward the French Alps. Once at their cruising altitude they’d hit the gas and raced for Malaga, Spain. They knew they were heading into rough weather, but they were ready for more than a little rain. Their tanks were topped off with fuel and their fuselage was packed with explosives.

  A Learjet lifted off from Malta.

  The team was excited. They’d been training for months and they’d finally been green lighted for a mission. The pilots, on the other hand, were anxious. They were flying under instrument flight rules and under tremendous pressure to get into position on time. There was no way they were going to be able to approach Gibraltar directly.

  A massive storm was dead ahead and could hit the Rock by nightfall, W’inter storms weren’t unusual, but the violence and intensity of the storm hey saw building on their radar unnerved them. Eight minutes off the island, hey refiled their flight plan. They’d try to go south and hug the coast of North Africa. If they were lucky, they could outflank the storm, bank right, and approach via Algeciras. They just hoped Jibril knew what he was doing. They were all willing to die. They just wanted to take someone with them.

  Hlours passed.

  It was now 11:32 A.M. in D.C.—4:32 P.M. in Gibraltar. The holidays were over. The temperatures were beginning to climb back toward freezing, and people in Washington were cautiously going back to work and school, the nation was still at Threat Level Red and security was tight. Checkpoints were still up on all roads and bridges leading into the capital. Avenger antiaircraft missile batteries still surrounded the Pentagon. Police helicopters still patrolled the skies while F-l6s roared overhead.

  All morning long, the phones in the Executive Office of the president had been ringing off the hook, and now a busy day was about to get busier. Muriel Clarke, the president’s executive assistant, checked her caller ID. It was Homeland Security Director Lee James’s AA on line five.

  “Hey, Margie, good morning—missed you last night.”

  “No, Muriel, it’s Lee. Where’s the president?”

  “Oh, sorry ‘bout that—uh, he’s in the Oval with the economic team.”

  “I need to talk to him.”

  “You’re coming over in a little while, aren’t you?”

  “No, you don’t understand—I need to talk to him now.”

  The day had gone too fast for Bennett.

  It hadn’t gone fast enough for McCoy. She was looking forward to dinner with Doron and Sa’id, and glad Mordechai and Galishnikov had been invited along. But she was tired. The past few weeks were taking their toll and she was glad they’d be back by eight—eight-thirty at the latest. Safe inside a mountain. Protected from the storms. Nothing else to do but lock her door and take a nice, long, hot bath.

  The phone beside her bed rang. It was Bennett. It was time.

  The president took the call.

  “Lee, what have you got?”

  “Italian passport—name’s Mario Iabello. Says he works for Microsoft as a software salesman out of Rome. Problem is, Microsoft has never heard of the guy. And the passport turns out to be a fake.”

  “All right. So you got him?”

  “Not quite.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He passed through Tijuana last week, right before we shut down the border.”

  “OK. So where is he now?”

  “He’s in Washington.”

  “Microsoft Washington?”

  “No—here—our Washington. The Metro police cleared him across the Fourteenth Street Bridge yesterday afternoon.”

  “Oh my God. He’s here?”

  “Somewhere.”

  “How could he have gotten in with explosives, or weapons?”

  “We don’t think he could have. Best guess—he’s got a sleeper here in the city with prepositioned weapons, possibly C4.”

  “What are you thinking, car bomb?”

  “I don’t know. He rented a car in Mexico City, then switched it in San Diego. One of my guys is talking to the rental agency right now.”

  “Do we have a license plate?”

  “We do. D.C. police took it down last night—routine procedure.”

  “What about a photo?”

  “Yes, we’ve got the one on the passport.”

  “Is this guy in our system?”

  “No—not in ours, not in the FBI database, Secret Service, or the CIA. We have no idea who he is. But, Mr. President, right now he’s our prime suspect.”

  “And he’s here.”

  “Yes, sir. The Joint Task Force is putting everyone on alert—all federal law enforcement, obviously, plus the Metro Police, Park Police, Capitol Hill Police, you name it. With your permission, we’d like to give this guy’s name and photo to the media immediately. It’ll raise the panic level, sir, but getting the public on the lookout for this guy could make all the difference.”

  “Do it.”

  “We also need to shut down the city—airports, train stations, buses, bridges—no one in or out. Lock down the schools. And we propose assigning police units to every school and every government building.”

  “Lee, do what you have to do—just get this guy.”

  News Channel Four broke the story first.

  The local NBC affiliate cut into the expanded hour of Today with a four-color photo of “Mario Iabello” and the chilling news. According to the Department of Homeland Security, Mr. Iabello was now wanted in connection with multiple violations of immigration law, should be considered armed and very dangerous, and was likely to be in Washington, D.C, at that very moment.

  ‘Mr. President, it’s Bud Norris at Secret Service.” “Go ahead, Bud, I’ve got you on speaker phone.” MacPherson huddled in the Situation Room with Bob Corsctti, Marsha

  Kirkpatrick, and the NSC’s top counterterrorism specialists. All operations in the White House were being shut down and the grounds were swarming with heavily armed agents on high alert.

  “Mr. President, I can report that Checkmate is safe. He’s currently airborne, and en route to Location Six. Megaphone is at the Capitol. He’s being taken to a secure underground facility. All other protectees are in the process of being taken to secure facilities as well. The Capitol’s shut down and being reinforced with extra security even as we speak.”

  “Good, thanks—Lee, are you there?”

  “Yes, sir, I’m here.”

  “And Scott Harris—you on the line, too?”

  “Yes, Mr. President, I am.”

  “Good—I’m told we’ll have the videoconference system back up in a moment. But Lee, let’s start with you. What’ve you got?”

  “Mr. President, we’ve just talked to the agency that rented Iabello’s car.”

  “And?”

  “All their cars have antitheft devices installed at the factory. We’ve got the frequency and the tracking codes and they’re helping us to hunt it down right now.”

  “What do you mean—Lo Jack, that kind of thing?”

  “Exactly, sir—a low-frequency homing device. We should have it in the next few—”

  The Secretary’s voice cut off.

  “Lee, you still with us?” asked MacPherson. “This thing still work?”

  “Yes, Mr. President, I’m still here—someone’s bringing me the location right now. Hold on.”

  You could hear a pin drop in the Situation Room. Nobody said a word, though members of the VP’s National Security staff were now slipping in as well. The TV sets lining the walls were all on mute. But every picture was the same—Mario Iabello—the suicide bomber who got away.

  “Come on, come on,” said the president, barely under his breath, and suddenly the secretar
y was back on the line.

  “We’ve got it, Mr. President—the car is at the Willard.”

  “Oh my God, that’s across the street.”

  Within minutes, the hotel was surrounded.

  News helicopters weren’t flying. All non-law enforcement aircraft over D.C., Virginia, and Maryland were grounded instantly. But this was Washington. News cameras were everywhere. So were satellite trucks. In their homes and offices across the country, Americans watched the unfolding drama in horror. Sirens filled the air. Secret Service SWAT teams took the lead. They were, after all, based out of the Treasury Building not fifty yards from the Willard’s front door. FBI Critical Response Units poured in as well, as did agents and bomb squad technicians from at least six different agencies.

  Marcus Jackson’s wireless phone began beeping.

  Jackson cursed under his breath. He was sitting alone in the Starbucks around the corner from the Old Executive Office Building. Hard at work on his laptop, sipping a latte and trying to get a little work done, it was tough enough to concentrate with all the sirens outside. Something big was going down. But he was a political reporter. Let someone else chase ambulances. He reached into his briefcase, grabbed his phone, and turned it off. Sure enough, it was the assignment desk in New York.

  Get a life, boys. The Times has other reporters. Call someone else.

  The front door jingled. Jackson looked up and smiled. The man in a bulky green winter parka didn’t smile back. He just glanced around the nearly empty store and left. Jackson shook his head and went back to the story on his laptop.

  The Willard didn’t have aboveground parking.

  So close to the White House and major landmarks, there simply wasn’t room. All vehicles receiving valet parking were kept underground. This posed additional dangers. If they sent a bomb squad unit in to find the car, Iabello could be waiting—in the garage or nearby. He could detonate the bomb with a remote switch and potentially bring half the block down with him. But they didn’t have much choice. Finding the car and defusing the bomb in time might be their only option. If they were lucky, they’d be able to storm Iabello’s room and catch him by surprise. But maybe he was watching the news.

  Maybe he wasn’t in the room at all.

  Now his pager began going off.

  Jackson couldn’t believe it. He rolled his eyes and grabbed the little black box off his belt. He checked the number—his editor again—911. He hit the button on the top and again there was quiet. No peace, but at least a little quiet. Jackson scooped his phone out of his bag again and powered it up. It beeped again. Six messages. Already? He’d only had it off for a few minutes. He hit speed dial two and got his editor.

  “Jackson, where the hell have you been?”

  “I’m getting some coffee, working on a story.”

  “Forget the story—haven’t you heard what’s going on?”

  “No, what?”

  “The feds are tracking down a suicide bomber in D.C.”

  “Holy—”

  “I’ve been trying to call you. Why aren’t you at the White House?”

  “I’m at Starbucks.”

  “Well, get over there. Murray’s about to brief and we’ve got no one on point.”

  “Isn’t Eicher back?”

  “No. He’s in St. Louis for the Senate race.”

  “Fine,” said Jackson, shutting down his computer and packing up his stuff. “What have you got? What do we know already?”

  “You on your wireless phone?” Of course.

  “Good—get moving—I’ll e-mail you the FBI release and this guy’s mug.”

  “Fair enough.” “And Jackson …” “Yeah, boss?” “Watch your back.”

  Tariq and his advance team triple-checked every detail.

  The Top of the World was cleared of all employees so no one could be around to identify the two prime ministers. Every square inch was swept for explosives, weapons, and bugs. The kitchens were being scrubbed down. Special food was brought in. All systems looked good. All but the weather. The storm was moving in a little too fast. It wasn’t cause for cancelation, just concern.

  Tariq radioed back to the security detail inside the Mount of Olives. There’d be no cable-car ride tonight. They should take the principals up the service road. The decoy motorcade should come up first, arriving at 4:50 P.M. The real “package” should hang back a bit, arriving around 5:15 P.M., Instead.

  “Mr. President, my guys are in—we got the car.”

  It was Bud Norris in the Secret Service Op Center. He sounded breathless.

  “And?”

  “Nothing—no bomb, no weapons, nothing.”

  “What about him?”

  “SWAT Team Three just stormed the room—nothing, just a suitcase and some personal effects—Iabello wasn’t there.”

  “Then where is he?”

  “We don’t know, sir.”

  “Then rip that place apart until you find him—you heap me?”

  BEEP, BEEP, BEEP.

  It was Jackson’s phone. He had mail.

  He raced across Seventeenth Street and flashed his White House press pass to a team of Secret Service SWAT members taking up positions on the corner. They went through Jackson’s bag, searched him with a handheld metal detector and a handheld explosives detector. Then a uniformed officer personally escorted Jackson to the Northwest Gate to be searched all over again.

  As he waited in line behind three other reporters, Jackson checked the message from his editor. With a few clicks of his phone, he opened the e-mail and photo and his eyes went wide.

  “Oh my God, oh my God …”

  Jackson’s hands began to shake.

  Four agents turned toward him.

  He’d just seen this guy. Mario Iabello. Five minutes ago, maybe ten. This was the guy—the guy in the parka who had just done the U-turn out of the Starbucks.

  “You ‘ve got mail.”

  Jibril’s stomach tightened. His eyes immediately shifted from the CNN coverage of the crisis in Washington to the laptop beside him.

  “Mr. President.”

  It was Secretary James. The videoconference system was up again.

  “I’m here—what’ve you got?”

  “Marcus Jackson just told one of our agents he thinks he saw this guy, Iabello.”

  “Where?”

  “At the Starbucks near the OEOB.”

  “When?”

  “Ten minutes—maybe a little more.”

  “And he’s sure?”

  “Sure enough—we’re deploying units right now,”

  “Are the choppers up?”

  “They are—we’re flooding the zone in a ten-block radius in every direction.”

  “He could be anywhere.”

  “That’s true, Mr. President. He could be anywhere.”

  But Norris suddenly cut in from the Secret Service Op Center.

  “Mr. President?”

  “Yes, Bud.”

  “This guy’s too close, a block from the White House, maybe less. We need to move you downstairs—now.”

  Jibril checked the message.

  It was “Gift Shop” on Gibraltar. He was on the roof of his building with binoculars, pretending to fix his television antenna. He could see a motorcade heading up the Rock to the Top of the World restaurant—two sedans up front, followed by two minivans. That was it. That was them. It was beginning to drizzle, the note added. Visibility was worsening. But they’d be there in less than ten minutes.

  The Viper wasn’t used to the cold.

  He’d grown up in Baghdad and the deserts surrounding it. He was used to a hundred twenty in the shade. Not the winter wonderland of Washington, D.C. But he had the parka and he drew the hood tightly around his face. Then he plunged his hands back into the pockets, grabbed the ignition switch again, and picked up the pace.

  Jibril looked over at Gogolov and nodded.

  Gogolov nodded back. Jibril picked up the satellite phone and began calling each pilot. Yes, the NSA would pick up the ca
lls. But it didn’t matter. The whole thing would be over in an hour. He and Gogolov would be on a plane out of Iran in less than five hours.

  He crossed the street and began moving toward the hill.

  Toward the ring of American flags, snapping smartly in the bitter January winds. There were a lot of cops, but most of them were on the far side of the Washington Monument. They were huddled around the row of yellow school buses parked near the souvenir stand and the bathrooms, feverishly herding children out of the Monument’s elevators and back onto the buses. But he could make it. He couldn’t run. He couldn’t draw attention to himself. But if he kept moving briskly, he could make it.

  The second motorcade began to assemble at the entrance of the cave.

  Six Gold members of SEAL Team Eight piled into the lead minivan. Doron and three Shin Bet agents climbed into the back of the first Chevy Tahoe, while two SEALs up front prepared to drive and monitor communications. Sa’id and a team of five SEALs climbed into the second Tahoe,

  while Bennett, McCoy, Galishnikov, and Mordechai squeezed into the back of a red VW Bug.

  “Sorry, Mr. Bennett,” said the NSA’s chief of security. “It’s all we’ve got left. We’re not used to so much company.”

  Normally, Bennett would have been ticked off. But not today. Nothing could bother him today. The security chief thanked him for his patience and wired him up with a radio earpiece and wrist microphone for the drive up.

  “Bug One ready to bug out,” Bennett joked. “Let’s get this show on the road.”

  He was almost there.

  He began climbing the hill. He pulled back his hood for a few moments to get a better view. He’d never seen the Washington Monument before. Just in pictures. It was huge. It was beautiful.

  He could feel his heart pounding in his chest. He thought about his mother, about her dreams for a Palestine liberated from the Jews. If she wasn’t already in Paradise, the thought of American troops in Hebron and Jericho would have killed her for sure. He thought about his father. What would he think when he heard the news? Would he know it was his son? Nadir had mailed a letter to him—and one to the president—just before he left the Willard. How long would it take before they were delivered?