The man who had rented the van and bought the Stone-walkers was named Hekuran Selmani, a twenty-two-year old Albanian national who’d entered the country on a work visa three months earlier.
“Shit,” McBride said.
Oliver nodded. “Took the word right out of my mouth.”
Given his nationality, the chances were good Selmani was a terrorist affiliate, and given how long he’d been in the country he and his cohorts had likely come here with the Root kidnapping in mind. But why? McBride wondered for the hundredth time. Why Jonathan Root?
“We gotta get these guys before it gets any uglier,” Oliver said. “Is there an address listed?”
“Westphalia.”
Oliver reached for the phone.
Westphalia was twelve miles from Downtown Washington. Selmani’s apartment building, a three-story house that had been converted into a quadplex, was on Brown Station Road across from the Oak Grove Electrical Substation.
An hour after Oliver started making calls, he and McBride pulled into the substation’s parking lot followed by an evidence response team van. Already waiting were three squad cars from the Prince Georges County Sheriff’s Department and a rapid-response team from the FBI’s Hostage Rescue Unit. Grim faced and all-business, they milled around the van, donning body armor and checking weapons. The sheriff’s deputies stood off to the side, arms folded. McBride read their collective expression: Federal prima donnas.
Whatever the perception, McBride knew the HRT was universally respected as one of the finest tactical units in the country, if not the world. They trained hard and knew their business. The last thing any criminal wanted to see was an HRT team crashing through the door.
Oliver got out and started toward the group. His cell phone rang. “Oliver.” He listened for a few moments, then hung up He took off his sunglasses and squeezed the bridge of his nose.
“What, Collin?” McBride asked.
“The fourth guard from the Roots’—the college kid — he died a few minutes ago.”
“Ah, man.”
Oliver took a deep breath, muttered “Okay, okay,” then walked over to the sheriff, shook his hand, and exchanged a few words. McBride collected a pair of blue windbreakers with “FBI” emblazoned on their backs. He handed one to Oliver who donned it and then turned to the HRT.
“I know you guys already had a look at the quad’s blueprints, so here’s the scoop: We’re looking for a single suspect, adult male, white, aged twenty-two,” he said, passing out photos of Selmani. “The subject is a foreign national. His grasp of English may or may not be tenuous. According to the subject’s landlord, he hasn’t been on the premises for five days. Don’t count on that. Assume he’s there; assume he’s armed — and though it’s unlikely, assume he has a hostage.”
“Who’re we talking about?” asked the team’s commander, a fortyish man named Gene Scanlon.
“Have you been reading the papers?”
Scanlon thought for a moment, then groaned. “Aw, jeez. Root?”
“The CIA guy?” another said.
“That’s the one,” Oliver replied. “The landlord will meet us on Brown and lead us to the quadplex. We’ll be entering through an alley behind the apartment; there are no windows facing the alley. We’ve confirmed the rest of the occupants are gone. Selmani’s apartment is the first unit on the second floor.
“We’ve got keys, so we’re gonna go in quiet. If Selmani is gone, the HRT will withdraw and clear the area while myself and these agents execute the search warrant. We’re hoping to find evidence that’ll lead us to him. Failing that, we’ll set up surveillance on the off chance he returns.
“Finally — and this is crucial — if Selmani’s in the apartment, we need him alive,” Oliver said. “He may be the key to recovering the hostage.”
“And if he’s disagreeable?” one of the HRT men asked.
“Do you really need me to answer that?”
“Guess not.”
“Right now, he’s our only suspect. Get him alive if you can, but get him.”
Following the directions of the Quad’s landlord, an elderly Mexican man, who sat in the van’s passenger seat, the convoy rolled down the alley and coasted to a stop at the back door. The landlord handed the keys to Oliver then hurried down the alley, feet crunching on the gravel, and disappeared around the corner. Sheriff’s cars had taken up stations at either end of the alley.
Oliver nodded to Scanlon, who led his team through the back door. Oliver and McBride followed. Inside was a cramped foyer. Linoleum stairs led upward. Oliver turned to McBride.
“You want to wait here? I’ll call you once it’s clear.”
“You don’t have to tell me twice. Last time I touched a gun was at the county fair.”
“Water balloon game?”
McBride nodded, and Oliver muttered, “I hate those things. Thanks, Joe. If you got killed it would really ruin my day.”
McBride chuckled. “Me, too.”
Oliver crept up the stairs. The team’s four-man entry train was already in position, crouched single file against the wall, each man’s hand on the next’s shoulder, weapons held at ready low. Behind them, two team members stood in reserve.
Lying on his belly before Selmani’s door, an HRT man slipped a fiberscope camera into a slit he’d cut in the carpet. He studied the monitor for thirty seconds, then gave a thumbs-up over his shoulder. Scanlon crept forward and slipped the key into the lock. He paused, then looked down at the camera man. Another thumbs-up. Scanlon motioned him clear, waited for him to join the reserve, then hand signaled to the team, Prepare to enter,
Oliver drew his Smith & Wesson 10mm, flicked off the safety, and tucked it against his thigh.
Scanlon turned the knob and pushed open the door.
With only the sound of shuffling feet, the train charged into the room and fanned out. Ten seconds passed, then: “Clear … clear … clear … all clear.”
One of the HRT men poked his head out the door. “Nobody home.”
Oliver, McBride and the four techs from the ERT stood in the hallway while the team searched the apartment for bombs and booby traps. Once done, they filed out and Oliver’s team went in. Scanlon lingered in the doorway. “It’s a flophouse,” he said. “No telephone, no TV. He probably just needed a mail drop, someplace to crash. Need anything else, Collin?”
“No thanks, Gene. Tell the guys thanks, will ya?”
“Yep.”
Hekuran Selmani’s apartment was a two-room affair with a half bath, yellowing wallpaper, and warped hardwood floors. The living room contained four couch cushions, a small transistor radio, and a stack of newspapers in one corner. In the bedroom they found a bare mattress on the floor, a telephone book, and a loose-leaf notebook. The bathroom smelled of stale urine and toothpaste. The shower curtain, black with mold, hung stiffly from the rod.
“This guy was here on an operation,” Oliver declared. “He didn’t bother getting comfortable.”
“Agreed,” McBride said.
Oliver turned to the ERT: “Dust everything. Get hair, fibers, piss splatters — all of it.”
As the ERT went about its business, Oliver and McBride paged through the notebook in the bedroom. Most of the sheets were covered in random scribbles: grocery lists, phone numbers. Similarly, the dog-eared telephone book was tattooed with doodles, but nothing else.