Jenkins heard the tremor in her voice, but at least she knew this particular EAD to be forceful and decisive. She told him without preamble about the missiles, the stolen money, the lengthening chain of murders that appeared loosely associated with Prescott Biddle, the satellite photos, and her conclusion that a raid on Biddle’s estate was required to prevent an assassination attempt on POTUS the following day.
To his credit the EAD did not mention chain-of-command issues or ask her why she wasn’t calling her titular boss in the U.S. Attorney’s Office. “Agent Jenkins, do you have any idea of the shit storm this will create?”
“Yessir,” she said.
There was a long silence before the EAD spoke again. “I’m sure you’ve considered the impact on your career if this proves unsubstantiated?”
Her pause lasted only a second. She was rolling all the dice on her intuition, but in the past thirty minutes, she’d also learned that Maggie DeVito and Brent Lucas had gone to the same high school, graduated the same year, both at the top of their class. DeVito was in a liaison job, yet her investigation was so precisely targeted that she had to have some outside direction. She intuited that DeVito had enlisted Kosinsky to help cover her tracks. All of which implied that DeVito was in contact with Brent Lucas.
“Yessir,” she told the EAD.
“I had to ask.” There was another silence. Finally, the EAD said, “Permission granted to conduct a raid with all due haste.”
“Thank you, sir.” In FBI parlance, ‘all due haste’ meant the raid would be preceded by an exhaustive planning session, only tonight there was no time. “Um, there’s another piece of information. I believe two Project Seahawk agents may already be attempting an interdiction.”
“On their own?” the EAD squawked.
“Yessir. I’ll provide details later. Right now, I don’t think they’re important.”
“Jesus H. Christ!” the EAD groaned. “I’ll mobilize the New York office and have all available agents at your disposal. I’ll also have Nassau County S.W.A.T. standing by for instructions. Get moving, Jenkins.”
“Yessir.”
Jenkins hung up and grabbed her copies of the NSA photos. She pulled her bulletproof vest from the hanger behind her office door then ran down two flights to the Border Patrol area. She found the woman she’d bummed the cigarette from earlier and tossed a five-dollar bill on her desk. “I need a few more. It’s an emergency.”
The woman looked up from her computer. She glanced at the money, shrugged, and then pulled the pack out of her desk drawer and held it out. Jenkins snatched six cigarettes, stuffed one behind each ear and four in the breast pocket of her jacket. “Thanks,” she mumbled, then rushed toward the elevator.
Moments later with her blue light flashing and a lit cigarette clamped in her teeth, she roared through the deserted Newark streets. She phoned the Manhattan FBI office and the night Duty Officer told her five agents would be waiting for her in a navy blue van outside Federal Plaza. She told the DO to requisition night vision goggles and an M16 with a laser aiming device and extra magazines for each agent and for her as well. She also asked for communications gear, flash-bangs, and smoke grenades.
Next, she phoned the Nassau County Police and identified herself to the night sergeant. He in turn patched her straight through to the Chief, whose angry tone told her he’d been awaiting the call. “First off, I want to go on record as telling you this may be the craziest goddam idea for a raid I’ve ever heard. You got that?”
The Chief’s voice was rough with age, and Jenkins pictured a careful survivor, probably a man looking to retire in a year or so without major stains on his reputation. She ground her teeth, knowing she needed his cooperation. “Thank you for expressing you thoughts, Chief,” she managed.
The next thing surprised her. “I just had to say it,” he said. “SWAT’s been alerted. I’ll have twenty-five officers for you, armed and ready in less than an hour. Our helo’s already been given coordinates, but the weather’s turning to crap. I just hope to hell you know what you’re doing.”
That makes two of us, Jenkins thought. “I assume you have fire department maps of the property?”
“My SWAT team trains every damn week. They’ve got maps of every major building and every piece of ground in this county.”
“What about the town police?”
“Oyster Bay Cove?” the Chief scoffed. “They won’t get near this. Anything happens that makes us look bad, they’re gonna be in the newspapers and on TV saying they fought this tooth and nail. They’re gonna say we’re the dumbest bunch of bastards ever born. You better expect it.”
“I hear you,” Jenkins said. If she were wrong on this, the Director would personally flay her with a rusty knife, so she couldn’t sweat the small stuff.
Fortunately, the night traffic was light in the Lincoln Tunnel, and the navy blue van was parked outside Federal Plaza as promised, the five agents standing on the sidewalk. They obviously knew the purpose of the raid because they wore combat gear and unhappy expressions. Jenkins parked, locked her car, and introduced herself to the four men and one woman.
“I hope you know what you’re doing,” one of the men said.
Jenkins walked up to him and pulled herself up as tall as possible so she could look him straight in the eyes. “That makes two of us.”
FIFTY-SIX
LONG ISLAND, JULY 1
PRESCOTT BIDDLE HAD JUST BEGUN to tease Anneliës’s left nipple with his tongue when his cell phone began to ring. He ignored it. It stopped but then went off again almost immediately. This time he rolled across the hotel’s king-sized bed, checked the caller ID, and saw that it was an “unknown number.”
“Don’t answer,” Anneliës whispered, putting her arms around him as she tried to take the phone from his hand.
The ringing stopped, and then started a third time. Only now the readout showed the call coming from his cottage, and he hit the answer button.
“Mr. Biddle.” Abu Sayeed’s voice was calm, almost languorous.
“You shouldn’t be using this phone!” Biddle snapped.
“You didn’t answer when I used my cell,” Abu Sayeed said. “And I need something.”
Biddle felt his pulse begin to hammer. “You have everything you need already.”
“Not quite.”
Biddle knew Anneliës could overhear because he felt her body stiffen. “What are you talking about?”
“We need you.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“I’m not going to argue with you, Mr. Biddle. Suffice it to say that we have something that belongs to you.”
Biddle heard the sound of a door opening in the background, then a scream of pain followed by a woman’s voice calling his name. The door slammed. “That was your wife, Mr. Biddle,” Abu Sayeed said as he came back on the line. “I think she is quite anxious that you return quickly.”
Biddle’s heart bucked helplessly, caught in a vice grip of guilt. He began to hyperventilate. Weeks earlier he’d considered sending Faith to another of the alcohol treatment clinics that always failed to help, but he’d put it off. Why? Biddle now wondered. In some shameful recess had he harbored a secret hope that the terrorists would remove the problem of his marriage? “You have no right!” he sputtered.
“Hurry back, Mr. Biddle,” Abu Sayeed said, and then hung up.
Biddle sat on the side of the bed and looked back at Anneliës. She lay with the sheet bunched at her hips, her perfect breasts rising and falling with her respirations. She reached out for him, but he moved further away, hit with a sudden flash of intuition. “This is why you insisted we come here,” he said. “How long have you known?”
Anneliës held his stare, but he could see caution and anxiety flickering in her eyes. “There is no way I could have prevented it,” she said.