Daniel pulled a black ski mask out of his backpack and pulled it tight over his head, adjusting the eye holes. He issued orders for a forced entry, and set his watch to chronograph. They would have a very limited amount of time once the explosive charges detonated, turning this quiet neighborhood into downtown Fallujah. Farrington would cover the street from the brownstone's entrance, and serve as back up if Petrovich needed help inside. Parker would position his car one block over, ready to pick them up on whichever entrance to O Street wasn't blocked by police. He waited roughly one minute, then gave the signal to move. He saw Farrington sprinting across the street ahead of him, and briefly gave the man credit for his physical capabilities. He just hoped the colonel would hold up under the stress of the next few minutes. Petrovich reached the iron gate first, and swung it open for Farrington, who entered and took a position on the steps, away from the door, and out of Daniel's way.
Claire McHatten was a light sleeper, especially when agents occupied her "house" after hours. She never asked questions, and never expressed her opinion about certain senior CIA officials' specific "use" of the house late in the evening, but she was glad that the wall separating her brownstone from the safe house was both sound and blast proof. She didn't care to hear the noises that might emanate from some of the female "guests" that frequented the location.
Tonight she didn't have to worry about women of questionable repute entering her house, but she still slept uneasily with Berg next door. Langley wasn't that far away, and she was convinced that he was up to something. Or maybe not. Spies were spies, and even when they no longer served in the field, they liked to play the game, and think they still had it in them to work their magic. She could certainly understand how they felt, though most of this emotion had been washed out of her system over the past twenty years sitting behind her desk next door.
She had served with her husband in Eastern Europe for eight years at the height of the cold war, stationed for most of it at the U.S. Embassy in Warsaw, Poland. They ran a highly successful husband and wife operation until her husband was brutally murdered in 1985, on a train destined for Czechoslovakia. He had left Poland to meet with CIA operatives in Prague, who had just begun to foster and support a grassroots solidarity movement. Claire and her husband were at least a year ahead of their CIA counterparts in Czechoslovakia, and they had planned to discuss ways to accelerate the Czech movement. One of the countries' governments, if not both, didn't want the meeting to take place. Her husband was killed during a prolonged stop at the Czech/Polish border, and neither country accepted responsibility for investigating the murder.
Devastated, Claire returned to the U.S., unsure of how to proceed with her life. She accepted what was supposed to be a temporary position at the safe house, but settled into a quiet life, and never left. After ten years on the job, the CIA signed an open-ended lease to have her live in the attached brownstone. Ten years after that, she was an enigma to most agents who crossed the safe house's threshold, and most agents figured she was a stuffy, miserable wife for some aging member of the wealthy Georgetown elite. Few would ever suspect that she was the building's guardian and keeper nearly twenty-four hours a day, 365 days a year.
She was specially attuned to her "house," and when the gate squeaked the first time, she figured it was Keller, and eased back to sleep. When the gate squeaked again, a few minutes later, Claire became a little more alert. In fact, she found her arms covered in goose bumps. Something wasn't right. She glanced at the digital clock on her nightstand. 12:35. She never saw 12:36. A low pitched alarm sounded throughout her home, and she sprang into action to defend her "house."
Petrovich focused on the door as thermite charges burned through the locks and hinges at 2,50 °Celsius, on four points along the outer vestibule door. The thermite was overkill for this door, but he didn't want to waste any time. The charges burned for five seconds, turning any solid metal components in their path into molten liquid, and igniting the door. Daniel kicked the solid wood into the vestibule, and started the chronometer on his watch.
He immediately set to work on the second door, placing small plastic explosive charges where he would logically expect to find hinges. The door obviously opened inward, as no hinges were visible, and this was good, since the door would blow inward. He set a larger charge around the door handle, and attached wires to each package. The wires led to a small black device that he dug out of the backpack, which lay open at his feet. He grabbed the backpack and evacuated the porch.
"Move," he whispered, and pushed Farrington off the porch.
Huddled against the front of the house with Farrington, Daniel rapidly squeezed the "clacker," catapulting the serene, multi-million dollar neighborhood into a war zone. The simultaneous detonation of four compact charges blew wood and brick fragments onto the parked cars in front of the house, and activated every car alarm within a one block radius. It also removed the door cleanly. Daniel mounted the stairs and rushed through the dust and floating debris, and saw that the twisted door had simply fallen inward. He was glad it hadn't launched back into the house and damaged the secretary's desk.
Petrovich sprinted through the heated smoke, searching for the front desk. He found it at the back of the room. His attention was drawn to a single burning stack of yellow Post-Its in the center of the desk. Everything else had been knocked clear by the concussion wave generated by the C-4 and sat scattered in disarray behind the desk. Petrovich noticed several other small fires throughout the room, but they didn't concern him. He should be out of this structure before any of the fires become consequential, and couldn't afford even the simplest distraction that didn't impact his overall success.
Although less than fifteen seconds had elapsed, he would likely need every second to accomplish this mission and escape to see Jessica again. He methodically searched the back of the desk and found what he was looking for. A bank of three hidden buttons. Now he was really in business.
Daniel reached into the black military style pouch attached to his belt and removed a "special." He didn't need to visually confirm what he held. He knew the feel of the three types of grenades in the pouch, and hoped he wouldn't have to search for the round, smooth type. He pulled the pin on the grenade and released the trigger handle. In one expertly timed motion, he pressed all three buttons and sprinted to the staircase, casually tossing the grenade with his left hand, in an arch toward the door at the top of the stairs. His timing was perfect.
Berg slowly got up from one of the dining room chairs when the alarm sounded. Keller had just arrived, and was drinking a glass of water across from him at the dining table. He thought Keller would need more than a glass of water after the attack on the Pentagon, but didn't want to risk an interaction with the toxin that was likely still present in his body. He couldn't believe the raw nerve of the Black Flag group.
Keller stared off at an original piece of Revolutionary War art hanging on the wall, as Berg glanced at him slightly annoyed. Keller must have left one of the doors ajar. He couldn't really blame the agent, but now he'd probably have to listen to one of Ms. Claire's lectures about security. He begrudgingly walked toward the hallway door when the entire building seemed to shake on its foundation and the lights flickered, causing both of them to sprint into the hallway. Neither of them was armed.