The principal turned in a huff and pushed her way through the crowd: past the marksmen, setting up their M-92 sniper rifles near the windows; past the SWAT Team and NYPD representatives. They barely even noticed her as she stormed from the room. Most were clumped around scores of monitors, keeping an eye on the townhouse on Seventy-second Street, or listening through eavesdropping devices. Others gathered in knots, getting ready, checking their weapons — MP5 submachine guns, M4 Carbines, and Remington 870 shotguns. On their hips they carried Glock .22s.
Storm Troopers, thought Decker. Then who’s the rebel alliance?
“Now, where were we?” asked Hellard. He turned back to face Decker. “You were saying?”
“I’m the only one who can identify him, sir,” Decker answered, trying to pick up the thread. “The only one who’s seen him up close and in person. And I’m qualified. I was part of the JTTF in New York before being transferred to the NCTC.”
“Yeah, you told me. I’m familiar with your record, Special Agent Decker.” He sighed. “Look, when you asked to come up here for this raid, I agreed because I thought you might add some value to the team. But I never intended for you to actually enter the house. You know that. Why didn’t you ask me this earlier?”
“If I’d asked you before, you would have said no. Like you always do.”
“It’s true what he says about being able to ID the suspect,” said Doherty. “We’ve got four men inside, and we’re pretty sure El Aqrab’s one of them. But we can’t be one hundred percent certain. And if the others are only innocent bystanders, civilians, it might get ugly in there. Remember what happened in Queens last September.”
“You too?” Hellard said with frustration.
“I’m just saying.”
“You wouldn’t have even found this place if I hadn’t broken into that system in Iran,” Decker said.
“That’s my point. I realize you want to follow your cases into the field, Special Agent Decker, but you’re primarily a cryptanalyst forensic examiner. The last thing we need is for you to get your head blown off in some raid. The hero of the mega-tsunami.”
“Is that what this is about?” Decker took a step back from the desk. “Some PR concern, is that it? Is that why you’re always preventing me from going out into the field?”
“I don’t prevent you.”
“You wouldn’t let me go to Philadelphia, on that raid on H2O2’s loft. Any other Special Agent attached to such a case would have been permitted to go. But not me. You always find some excuse to keep me at the Center. Well, if you’re trying to keep me out of harm’s way just to safeguard your image, or the image of this department, once the media finds out—”
“Are you threatening me, Decker?”
“For all we know, the suspect’s not even in there,” said Doherty, becoming increasingly frustrated. “Look, this is your pissing match,” he continued. “I don’t have a horse in this race. Just let me know in two minutes whose is bigger. It’s time to suit up.” He lumbered away from the table and joined the rest of the squad.
Decker looked back at Hellard. “I didn’t mean to be impertinent, sir—”
“You could have fooled me.”
“It’s just that I can’t stand sitting around that little plastic tent anymore, looking down at her, waiting. I… I need to do something. Help get the people responsible.” Decker grasped at the words. They seemed to scurry before him, just out of reach.
“I’ve been seven years at the NCTC and, in all that time, sir, I’ve never asked you once for a favor, just what’s due me. No special assignments. No extra duty. I’ve been a part of every campaign that you’ve mounted to raise funds for the Center, knowing full well that you were exploiting my background, my personal profile to help you rally support on the Hill. I didn’t care. I wanted to help. For seven long years I’ve taken and eaten every shit sandwich you’ve served me. And I’ve never complained. Seven years, sir. Well, I’m asking for this. I… need this.”
Decker didn’t know what else to say. No one seemed to understand, except Rex, perhaps, and Ben Seiden, his friend from the Mossad, with whom he had worked during the El Aqrab incident. Seiden had telephoned Decker from his new post in Shanghai as soon as he’d heard about Becca. He too had a vested interest in making sure El Aqrab hadn’t somehow resurfaced.
“Jesus Christ, John,” said Hellard. “I know I’m going to regret this. But I guess as long as Doherty’s okay with it, if you want to risk making your daughter an orphan, be my guest. It’s your funeral.”
CHAPTER 11
Ten minutes later, the squad was assembled and ready at the base of the stairs near the back door leading out to the playground. Decker was among them, at the rear of the line. He felt claustrophobic in his helmet and body armor. His knee pads were so stiff that he found it difficult walking. And with his face stocking and goggles and chin guard, it was hard just to breathe.
He clutched the MP5 to his chest. An A2, made by Heckler & Koch, with a synthetic polymer stock, lightweight and air-cooled, the whole thing — even with the curved magazine packing thirty-two rounds — probably weighed less than three kilos. Yet it felt significantly heavier than the Glock .22 he generally carried when, on those rare occasions, Decker was allowed out into the field. FBI standard issue, the Glock was an exceptional handgun. But Decker relished the MP5’s sturdy feel and design, not to mention its stopping power. This is the gun that you want in close quarters, he thought. That’s why the FBI used it, and most SWAT teams, as well as the SEALS. It could cut through a wall, or a car door, or a man in a matter of seconds. And it dawned on him that it was these kinds of details that most stick in the mind during moments like this one. When everything stops. In that pause between the thought and the act. Like the prow of a freighter lifted up by a wave, lifted higher and higher, until it finally hesitates, before finally descending. Like Emily and Becca on that waterslide in Orlando, waiting for the world to drop out from beneath them.
Outside, through the window, he could see giant white flakes drifting down from the sky. Like the ash which had swirled round his townhouse.
Captain Doherty signaled. They checked their earpieces one more, just in case. Then Doherty kicked the door open and they entered the courtyard.
“We’re heading across the playground now,” Doherty said. The line of eight men kept close to the building as they snaked their way beside the see-saws and swing sets and monkey bars. The snow made it difficult to see, especially with all their gear on. It had already started to accumulate in certain spots on the ground.
When they reached the corner of the building, the men paused.
“They’re still inside. Suspects two, three and four on the third floor, and suspect one on the second,” said the voice in his earpiece.
“Copy that,” Captain Doherty answered. “We’re heading into the garden.”