“I assume they’ve activated COG,” Uzi said, referring to the Continuity of Government plan that provided for a shadow government to run the country’s infrastructure from a secure, hardened location in the event a terrorist attack wiped out Washington’s buildings and leadership.
DeSantos consulted his watch. “They should be boarding the transport choppers right about now. Until we get a handle on what the hell’s going on, Whitehall’s not taking any chances.”
Uzi glanced out at the wreckage. “Damn straight.”
“This kind of hit has gotta be a well-planned, coordinated attack. What do you think— al-Qaeda? Can they still pull off something like this?”
Uzi grunted. “There are sixty-nine major terrorist organizations in the world. Al-Qaeda’s a good place to start, but as to whether or not they could pull off something this complex, I don’t know. Not only have we taken out bin Laden, we’ve eliminated some of their top planners. Latest thinking is that AQ’s a loose collection of regional ‘affiliate’ groups that operate independently and use the AQ ‘brand’—no relationship to one another except for name and ideology. The stuff we found in bin Laden’s compound showed he was frustrated with those groups — they didn’t always do what he told them to do. But how AQ operated before we killed bin Laden, and how they’re operating now, could be different. Some think the leadership now sets the targets and their affiliates take care of business. Centralized decisions, decentralized execution.”
DeSantos shoved both hands into his jacket pockets. “And to think, we’re partially responsible for creating this beast.”
“How do you figure?”
“We bankrolled bin Laden back in the eighties.”
“Oh, that. Yeah, well, it’s the Middle East. Your friend today is your enemy tomorrow. That I get… but what kills me is that while we’re sending bin Laden two billion in taxpayer money to fight the Soviets, he was teaming up with a Palestinian Islamic member of the Muslim Brotherhood to build training camps in Pakistan. Al-Qaeda’s birth.”
“That shining moment in world history.” DeSantos tilted his head. “Two billion? Was it that much?”
“Something like that. Soon as we realized what was going on, we cut them off and shut down the banks that handled their money, but—”
“That’s when they started their own private banking system. The How— Howula?”
“Hawala. Yeah. Our sanctions worked, that was the good news. Bad news was it worked too well. It forced them to get their act together, form a more traditional centralized command and control structure. They used the illicit drug trade to develop affiliates and franchises in other countries. Bottom line — we had the right idea, but there was no way to know that freezing their money would force them to become a better organized, more professional organization.”
“Kind of like no way we could know that funding bin Laden to fight off the Soviets in the eighties could lead to him blowing up the Twin Towers and killing almost three thousand Americans twenty years later. What’s the saying? ‘Seemed like a good idea at the time’? At least we finally got the fucker.”
“Yeah, we got him. But I’m not sure how much good that really did. I mean, yeah, we avenged the thousands he’d killed. And taking him out may’ve disrupted the group and created a temporary leadership scramble. But in terms of impacting their effectiveness, not so much.”
“Maybe,” DeSantos said. “Maybe not. But if we go on the assumption that AQ is now more a network of franchised groups, what’s your gut say about who we should be looking at?”
Uzi blew a mouthful of air through his lips. “Al-Qaeda in the Arabian Peninsula’s generally considered the most dangerous, but close behind is Islamic Jihad of Yemen, Al-Qaeda in Iraq, Al-Qaeda Organization in the Islamic Maghreb, al-Shabaab, al-Humat, Egyptian Islamic Jihad, Libyan Islamic Fighting Group, East Turkestan Islamic Movement. Maybe a handful of others.”
“I asked about your gut, not our Ten Most Wanted.”
As Uzi opened his mouth to reply, an electronic guitar sung from DeSantos’s pocket.
DeSantos patted his jacket, found the BlackBerry, and brought it to his face. “Yeah.” His eyes narrowed. “Okay.” He listened a moment, then turned to Uzi. “So much for the obvious.”
“We don’t want it to be too easy. That’d be no fun.” Uzi nodded at the phone.
“Not sure yet. Intel could be good, could be shit. I’ll check it out, let you know.” DeSantos’s voice — and gaze — suddenly drifted beyond Uzi’s shoulder. “Mm, mmm. Who’s that?”
Uzi turned and immediately locked on the woman DeSantos was looking at. “Don’t know. I ran into her a few minutes ago. My brain turned to mush.”
“Yeah, well, my other brain ain’t mush, I can tell you that.” DeSantos tilted his head. “Fine looking thing.”
“Aren’t you married?”
“Last time I checked, a marriage license didn’t come with blinders. Besides, Maggie and I have… an agreement.”
“I don’t think I want to hear it.”
“You probably don’t. Knowing you, it’d make your ears curl.”
Uzi was staring at the woman, watching her lean frame as she moved amongst the wreckage. “Yeah,” he said, not really hearing DeSantos’s comment.
“You know, you gave me shit, but looks to me like your radar’s locked in on the same target. You’re married — and I know your wife ain’t as understanding as Maggie.”
“Yeah.” Uzi tore his eyes from the woman. “I mean, no. It’s— It’s a long story.”
DeSantos’s gaze was again stuck to the woman’s body like Crazy Glue. “Miniskirt and high heels. Strange shit to be wearing at a crash scene, don’t you think?”
“Do me a favor, Santa. Get me her name and find out who she’s with.” Hoping his question wouldn’t initiate a discussion, he quickly added, “It’s for the investigation.”
DeSantos dipped his chin and looked at Uzi over the tops of his glasses. “Right. ‘The investigation.’”
Uzi saw three of his task force members approaching in the distance, led by Agent Hoshi Koh, his office confidante. He got their attention with the wave of a hand, then told DeSantos he would meet up with him later.
As DeSantos walked off to begin his own analysis, Uzi shoved his hands deep into the pockets of his long black leather coat and met his colleagues a few strides from the perimeter of the wreckage. He filled them in on what he knew— which wasn’t much. As Uzi expected, with the exception of Hoshi, they gave him a cold reception. Word traveled fast in field offices, even one as large as WFO.
Uzi and his team split up to begin their respective tasks. While en route to the site, Shepard had called Uzi to inform him that two dozen additional agents had been dispatched off-site to work the crash’s behind-the-scenes logistics: interviewing the executive transport division’s mechanics, pulling maintenance records, amassing weather reports for the region, and visiting with Air Traffic Control in an effort to reconstruct the helicopter’s flight path during its last fateful moments.
Uzi looked for investigators wearing NTSB coveralls and eventually located Clarice Canfield. She was a take-charge woman, five-foot-one in thick-soled boots and a short, military-style hairdo. They made introductions and canned the small talk.
“So what can you tell me about the aircraft?” Uzi asked.
“Which one, the VH-3 or the Super Stallion?”
“Let’s start with the H-3.”
“Walk with me,” she said. “I’ve got to find what’s left of the cockpit.” She started moving, faster than Uzi had thought possible with such short legs. Uzi flicked on a small flashlight and followed close behind like a puppy.
“I can tell you anything you want to know about it,” she said.