We found him. We found Jawhar.

  A thrill had run up Manning’s spine. The U. S. had found Jawhar Al-Asmari, the supreme leader of the Brotherhood of Jihad, the man behind the attack on the Sahmeran Adana Hotel.

  Where? Manning asked.

  Costigan spoke so low as to qualify as a whisper, even though nobody could possibly hear them in Manning’s car in the parking garage.

  I can’t reveal that, Costigan said.

  That response had surprised Manning, given the sum he’d paid for inside information. So what’s going to happen? When do we go in and get him?

  Costigan’s eyes diverted.

  Manning repeated the question.

  Costigan cleared his throat. The country where we found him—it’s a potential strategic ally we’ve been courting for a long time. A country we’ve been trying to pry away from Iran, from Russia and China. We need all the allies we can find in that region—

  What are you telling me? Manning interrupted.

  Costigan took a moment. I’m telling you that the attack on the Sahmeran Adana is not viewed as an attack on America. I’m telling you that if we go in and raid that compound in that particular country, we lose that country forever.

  Manning was speechless. The man who had ordered the murder of hundreds of innocent people, including seventeen Americans—and Manning’s entire family—was going to walk away scot-free?

  The president just said last week that we’re still hunting Al-Asmari, said Manning. So that was all bullshit?

  Costigan nodded and sighed. It was all bullshit. Officially, the manhunt continues. That’s the line everyone will recite. Even me. But this comes from the Oval Office, I’m told: Nobody is to breathe a word about the location of Jawhar Al-Asmari, and the U. S. government will do nothing to apprehend him or kill him.

  Then tell one of the European countries, Manning protested. Tell the Brits. The French.

  Costigan shook his head. The feeling is that it will still bear our fingerprints. We’re not even telling our allies about this. I’m sorry, Mr. Manning.

  Then tell me, Costigan. Tell me! I’ve paid you handsomely—

  You can have the money back, Mr. Manning, if you like. I’m truly sorry. If it were up to me, we’d go get that asshole. But it’s already been decided. Jawhar Al-Asmari is getting a pass on this one.

  And this—this is what the president wants?

  Costigan started and paused. From what I hear, this was the recommendation from the attorney general. He’s part of the brain trust on these things. He has the president’s ear. There was disagreement in the room—but the AG’s position won out.

  The attorney general? Randall Manning couldn’t believe his ears. Langdon Trotter? Lang Trotter had been governor of Manning’s state until his elevation to attorney general a couple of years ago. He’d been a law-and-order guy, a tough guy. Hell, Randall Manning had been a fundraiser for Trotter, one of the top money guys for “Friends of Lang.” They’d smoked cigars and drunk scotch together. Manning had probably raised more than a million dollars for the man. And this is what he got in return?

  Randall Manning rubbed his eyes and shuddered at the memory. That was the day his country, and an old friend, betrayed him. That was the day he recognized his country for the cowardly multicultural abyss it had become.

  Tomorrow would be the first step in taking his country back. The Pearl Harbor Day procession. He wished like hell that U. S. Attorney General Langdon Trotter would be in attendance, part of the anniversary march, like he used to be when he was governor of this state.

  He’d have to settle for the state’s new governor: Lang’s son, Governor Edgar Trotter, who was scheduled to lead the march tomorrow along with Mayor Champion.

  After tomorrow, Lang would know how it feels to lose a son to terrorism.

  94.

  The men recited the words from memory, by rote, as they continued their preparations.

  “I understand that the cause is greater than the individual. I understand that sacrificing this life for the cause will open up a new and richer life in the hereafter. I understand that the tree of liberty must be refreshed from time to time with the blood of patriots and tyrants. I understand that revolution is not only a right but an obligation. I understand that bigotry and hate cannot be answered with tolerance but with intolerance. I understand that those who take up arms against us cannot be answered with peace but with like arms.”

  The men were inside a storage unit, all of fifteen feet high, twelve feet wide, and thirty feet long. No windows, no furnishing, not even a traditional door—just an automated garage door at the front of the unit. The You-Ride truck had been stored here since they cleared it out of the silo at Summerset Farms—a bit earlier than they’d expected, because of that lawyer who Manning always complained about.

  But they’d always planned that tonight—the night before the attack—they would stay here, given the proximity to the city. It was cramped and dingy, but it didn’t really matter any longer. It was a sacrifice that paled in comparison to the one they’d be making very soon.

  “I understand that the cause is greater than the individual. I understand…”

  One man—Olsen—was performing a mechanical inspection of the You-Ride, checking tire pressure, the battery and engine, looking for anything that could go wrong tomorrow morning. The second man—Briggs—had the job of inspecting the equipment. He insured that the fuses were in proper and working order in the driver’s cabin. He confirmed that the protective plastic tubing, covering the fuses as they traveled underneath the driver’s cabin and up into the rear cargo area, were still intact. He checked the connection between the fuses and the blasting caps in the cargo area. He made sure that the slack in the plastic tubing was fastened securely against the wall of the cabin, preventing the accidental detachment of the fuses from the blasting caps in transit.

  The third member of the three-man team, Roscoe, slept. They had to take turns, only one man at a time. Everyone was hyped up, wired at the prospect of tomorrow, but Manning had been clear about it—everyone had to get at least four hours’ sleep at some point before the big event. Focus and discipline, a proper execution, were impossible without some amount of sleep beforehand.

  It was almost midnight. It was almost December 7.

  In thirteen hours, this country would change forever.

  BOOK 3

  December 7

  95.

  I stood on the Lerner Street Bridge, part of the Pearl Harbor Day procession route that would lead three blocks north to the federal building. It was a clear day but not sunny. The sky was the color of ash, which I hoped was not foreboding.

  It was eleven in the morning. Traffic was light over the bridge, and it would soon be non existent. The city would rope off the bridge for the marchers, who would begin at noon and probably hit the bridge about twenty, twenty-five minutes later.

  I had my cell phone with me, and Lee and I had promised to stay in touch, but I wasn’t really needed anymore. The federal government didn’t need me to tell them how to stop truck bombs.

  Lee, in fact, had told me to leave the downtown, but it felt odd to me to do so. Nobody else was evacuating. Why should I?

  I wasn’t really sure what to do. I crossed the bridge that split the commercial district and walked north toward the federal building again. The barricades surrounding the building had been fortified, and the Army had been called in as well to defend the building. Lee had mentioned air protection, too—fighter jets, presumably. The good news, as Lee had noted, was that all this military presence would fit right in with a memorial honoring the fallen at Pearl Harbor.

  Overhead, well beyond human sight, American satellites were shooting down, searching for suspicious vehicles, for three seventeen-foot You-Ride trucks.

  I ambled north and then west and passed the state building, an ugly structure composed in large part of glass. It would be a great target for a truck bomb.

  Then I completed my lap of the targets. I headed south. I wanted to be down by the Hartz Building at noon.

  The Pearl Harbor Day marchers were gathered on South Walter Drive near the Hartz Building. Over seventy-five people had assembled, some veterans of World War II, some children or grandchildren of the fallen at Pearl Harbor. At the front and rear of the procession were Army tanks, which, again, seemed perfectly normal and symbolic in this context. Members of the military—Army, I thought, maybe Army Rangers like Tom Stoller—stood at attention in their combat fatigues, weapons aimed upward.

  The politicians were absent. They’d been briefed and presumably thought better of serving as terrorist bait on this particular day. I knew this because I was part of the inner circle now. But nobody else did. The feds didn’t want this telegraphed in advance, because it might get back to the bombers and affect how they operated, and we didn’t want them to know that we knew. So as far as the general public knew, the mayor and governor and Senator Donsbrook were supposed to be here but for some reason weren’t. So the procession would now be led solely by a retired brigadier general who had been stationed in Pearl Harbor on the day of the attack.

  It felt wrong that these other marchers weren’t told of what might be happening. I had to assume that the immediate area had been thoroughly searched, and there was sufficient fortification to stop a You-Ride truck long before it reached this group.

  Still. The downtown was filled with people, people working in offices, people strolling the streets. It felt wrong. And I felt complicit.

  I caught Lee Tucker’s eye, who gave me a nasty look, unhappy to see me here.

  It was ten minutes until noon. There was no sign of a truck approaching, or Lee wouldn’t be standing still.

  My cell phone buzzed in my pocket. I didn’t recognize the caller. I looked at Lee and it wasn’t him, so it didn’t matter.

  Five minutes to noon. Someone was herding the marchers into some semblance of order on Walter Drive. Lee Tucker was in full concentration, his index finger placed against his earpiece, but he wasn’t registering grave concern. Nothing yet.

  And then it was noon.

  Nothing exploded. No truck came barreling toward us. I looked at Lee, who returned a blank stare back.

  The march began.

  96.

  Olsen checked his watch. It was twelve thirty-seven. About right. A little behind schedule, but he wasn’t going to panic. Traffic was worse than expected. They’d accounted for a slowdown, given that certain streets would be barricaded in light of the procession, but this was worse than he’d figured. Still, he had plenty of time before one. And even if it were a few minutes past one, he wouldn’t be too late. The memorial was expected to last until at least a quarter past the hour.

  And hell, even if he missed the memorial completely, the federal building was still going to be there.

  Don’t panic. Mr. Manning always said, don’t panic.

  He checked his side mirror. Behind him, the other two members of his team, Briggs and Roscoe, were in a Chevy sedan. They were the getaway, and the backup if things got rougher than expected.

  He nudged the You-Ride truck along as traffic inched forward. Up ahead at the cross street—Miller Street—he saw a police officer directing vehicles. It didn’t really make sense, though. They were still three blocks away from the federal building, and that was where traffic was detoured. Not at Miller Street…

  “I don’t get this,” he said, hearing the nerves in his voice.

  “It’s just traffic backed up,” said Briggs, in the car behind him.

  “It’s fucked up, though,” said another voice, McPike. McPike was the driver of the second You-Ride, the one destined for the state building. Olsen checked his side mirror again. The second You-Ride truck was… call it ten cars back in traffic. It was going to turn right at Miller Street, cut over, and drive south to the state building a block away, while Olsen would plow directly south into the federal plaza.

  “Keep cool,” said Olsen, trying to take his own advice. “Keep cool.”

  Traffic inched forward. The cop at the intersection with Miller Street made each car wait, spoke to the driver, then released him or her to go forward. It was hard to tell why. Stupid government assholes, holding up traffic to justify their existence.

  The car in front of Olsen was next up, pulling up to the intersection with Miller Street. The police officer walked up to the driver’s side door and spoke to the driver. He pointed to the left and then stepped away from the car. The car drove on through the intersection.

  The traffic cop then motioned Olsen forward, wiggling his fingers. Olsen took a breath and eased the You-Ride forward. The cop walked up to Olsen’s window, avoiding eye contact. Olsen lowered the window.

  “So listen,” said the cop. Then his hands quickly raised up, a firearm in his hand. He fired a rubber bullet directly into Olsen’s face, knocking him unconscious.

  It happened in coordination: Army tanks came from each side of Miller Street to cut off the You-Ride’s forward route. U. S. Special Forces converged from behind buildings on each corner of the intersection and charged both the You-Ride and the vehicle behind it, Briggs and Roscoe. The satellites had been following the You-Rides long enough to know that there was a backup car immediately behind.

  Briggs and Roscoe grabbed their assault rifles but didn’t even get out of the car before a barrage of rubber bullets pelted them. The Special Forces subdued them almost instantly, without firing a single incendiary round of ammunition.

  The process was identical for the second You-Ride truck driven by McPike, except that the Special Forces had approached from the rear. Before the two team members backing up McPike knew what had hit them, assault weapons crashed through the front windows and fired rubber bullets into their temples. McPike hadn’t fared much better, reaching for his sidearm instead of trying to access the fuse to his feet to begin ignition of the bomb. In any event, the Special Forces had smashed through his window and knocked him unconscious before he could spell his own name.

  They didn’t know what to expect in the cargo area, other than the incendiary devices, but it turned out there were no humans inside, just the bombs. Specialists jumped inside each cargo area and detached the fuses from the blasting caps, so that even if the drivers had managed to engage the time-delayed fuses before being subdued, the fuses wouldn’t be connected to the blasting caps anymore.

  “Truck number one clear!” the specialist in Olsen’s truck shouted into his microphone.

  “Truck number two clear!” said the one in McPike’s truck.

  The bombs were defused. The trucks were in custody. The terrorists were subdued.

  Two trucks down, one to go.

  The time was twelve forty-four P.M.

  97.

  I stood in the plaza of the state building, looking up at the all-glass building, wondering if it would still be standing in fifteen minutes, when my cell phone rang. It was Lee Tucker.

  “Two trucks down, no casualties,” he said. “You were right, Jason. You were right all along. They had enough material to take out half the downtown. Time-delayed fuses hidden under the seats, state-of-the-art blasting caps, very sophisticated stuff. But we got them. We fucking got them!”

  My heart pounded. Relief swept over me, followed by the churning of my stomach as the obvious statement hung out there between us: “Where the hell is the third truck?” I asked. We’d thought the third truck was destined for the Hartz Building, but that hadn’t come true. So where was it?

  “I don’t know. Satellite hasn’t picked up anything. We don’t know. I’m out.”

  I hung up my phone and stared, helplessly, at the screen. It showed a missed phone call from eleven fifty-one this morning. Right, I remembered that. I was pretty sure it was another call from Dr. Baraniq, asking about scheduling of the trial this week. I’d forgotten to call him yesterday.

  I stared a little longer.

  Dr. Baraniq had been concerned about the scheduling this week because he had a conflict.

  A religious obligation, he’d said.

  My body went cold. I clicked on the number that had called me at eleven fifty-one as my heart started pounding.

  “This is Sofian Baraniq.”

  “Dr. Baraniq, Jason Kolarich.”

  “Yes, Jason, oh, I wanted to know when you—”

  “Doctor,” I said. “Doctor. Is today that religious obligation you had?”

  “Yes, it is, as I mentioned.”

  “What is that religious obligation?” I asked, as I started walking.

  “You want to know—what is the particular obligation?”

  “I do.”

  “Well, it’s the first day of Muharram, which is the first month of our calendar,” he said. “We have a different, shorter calendar than the American calendar. This year it’s December seventh on your calendar.”

  I broke into a jog. “What are we talking about, Doctor? Some big deal?”

  “To some, yes,” he said. “Not so much for the Shia—”

  “Where are you, Doctor?”

  “Where—well, I’m parking my car near the mosque.”

  “That giant one on the west side where they protested after Nine/ Eleven? The al-Qadir mosque?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “There’s some kind of service?”

  “Yes, Jason. But why—”

  “Starting at one o’clock?” I asked, the panic unmistakable in my voice.

  “Yes,” he said, picking up on my concern.

  “Tell everyone to get out, Doctor! There’s a bomb! Do you hear me? Tell everyone to evacuate right now!”

  I punched out the phone and dialed Lee Tucker. By now I was in a full sprint westward.

  “Lee,” I said when he answered. “That giant mosque… on the west side,” I managed, panting as I ran. “On… Dayton?”

 

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36