Thorn was alone in his office, staring at nothing in particular, when Joe Rossini stuck his head in through the door. “You have a minute, Pete?”
“Hell, I’ve got days.” Thorn heard the unfamiliar bitterness in his voice and clamped down on it. Self-pity was for five-year-olds He nodded toward the empty chair in front of his desk. “What can I do for you, Maestro?”
Rossini gingerly lowered his bulk into the seat and leaned forward.
“Heard you had a rough time of it with the FBI today.”
“Word travels fast.”
The analyst nodded. “Better than light-speed.”
Thorn snorted. He shrugged his shoulders. “I tried sticking my nose in where it didn’t belong and got slapped down. End of story. The FBI has the domestic counterterrorism ball, and we’re out of the game.”
“You really think that?” Rossini asked.
“No,” Thorn said flatly, surprising himself. He shook his head. “Flynn and his team are good. Hell, they’re better than good. But I can’t help feeling that we’re all behind the curve on this one. Somebody out there blew the shit out of the National Press Club, and he and his friends are still on the loose. Hunting these bastards down strictly by the book might take too damned long.”
“You think they’ll hit again,” Rossini said, more as a statement than a question.
“Why not? Whoever they are, they just killed two hundred people within walking distance of the White House. Why should they stop now?” Thorn sat up straighter. Flynn had every right to keep him off the official investigation, but the FBI couldn’t stop him from using the resources at his own disposal. But what more could he do? As part of a larger U.S. intelligence effort, his analysts were already pressing ahead to learn more about the suspected links between American neo-Nazis and those in Europe.
Then he remembered something Flynn’s deputy had said. “I think we should start pulling some personnel files from Army and Navy records. I want the name and service record of every Green Beret, Ranger, and SEAL who’s been booted for bad conduct, race prejudice, or mental problems. Say over the past fifteen years.”
Rossini whistled softly. “You really think we’re dealing with one of our own guys who’s gone off the reservation?”
“Maybe. Maybe not.” Thorn shook his head angrily. “I don’t know, Maestro. This could be just a worthless shot in the dark, but I’m damned if I’ll sit idly by while somebody starts burning this country down around our ears.”
Hamid Algar scouted the parking lot carefully and covertly. A chill, light rain was falling, and he zipped up his leather jacket, trying to get the collar tighter around his neck. The dampness seemed to soak into his bones. He hated the rain the way a soldier hates mud or dust or flies. The Syrian had seen nothing but rain since coming to Seattle. The climate was as foreign as the food and the language and the people. He sustained himself with the knowledge that this campaign would not last forever, and that however uncomfortable he was, he would be making a lot of the Americans he despised even more uncomfortable.
The lot was full despite, or perhaps because of, the rain. At this predawn hour the lot was crowded with semis, their drivers taking time for a quick breakfast before pulling back on Interstate 5 and heading north. Located between Tacoma to the south and Seattle to the north, the truck stop provided food and showers, even beds, besides diesel fuel.
The Syrian moved deeper into the parking lot, paying careful attention to each vehicle. Glowing overhead lights highlighted the moisture that coated every surface. He was looking for a specific kind of truck driven by a certain kind of company. Nothing local. He needed someone heading on through the city, which was why he was here at this misbegotten truck stop at this accursed hour in this unholy rain. For the second morning in a row.
Nobody noticed the small, dark man. He wore jeans and running shoes and a dark brown leather jacket. Like everyone else, his head and shoulders were hunched down against the rain as he attended to his business as quickly as possible.
Algar’s hair was cut short, and he was clean-shaven. From his appearance, he could have been Hispanic, Arab, Italian, or even Polynesian. His driver’s license carried the name Lopez and certified that he was American-born.
He moved through the wet, floodlit darkness, reading license plates, looking at the lettering on the cabs. All of the trucks on this side of the stop were, just by being on this side, northbound. The question was, how far were they going?
Finally, the Syrian found the rig he was looking for. It had Canadian plates and it was parked right in the center of a long row of darkly gleaming trucks. Better still, it was hauling a massive tanker load. He took the time to circle the vehicle, alert for anything that might make it less than the perfect choice.
Nothing. The tanker truck was perfect for his purpose. He swung around, scanning the lot for anyone who might be watching him or who might note his presence. Nobody was in view, and he quickly ducked under the trailer, up in front where it joined the tractor.
Pulling a small cloth-wrapped bundle from under his jacket, Algar unwrapped a rectangular, mottled brown-black metal box. Then he swiped at the underside of the trailer with the cloth, making sure no water or grease would interfere with the magnets attached to one side.
As he’d been taught by his Iranian instructors at Masegarh, Algar placed his burden exactly in the center, just ahead of the attachment point with the tractor unit. The magnets took hold with a strong clack, almost jerking the box out of his hands. As a test, he tried to shift it, and found it nearly impossible.
Half hidden in a cluster of cables and wires, the box blended nicely with its surroundings. Just to be sure, he splashed muddy water from a puddle over it, completing the camouflage.
He flipped a switch, arming the device. The box beeped once, indicating it was armed and ready. The switch also enabled an antitamper circuit, so that any attempt to remove it would fail catastrophically.
Satisfied, the Syrian quickly stood up and looked around again as he wiped his muddy hands clean on the cloth. Still nobody in sight.
Algar gratefully went back to his old blue Chevy Nova and ducked in out of the hated rain. He’d parked the car so he could watch the only exit out of the parking lot. Now, he thought, the only hard part was to stay awake while he waited.
About thirty minutes later, the Syrian spotted “his” truck lumbering out of line and turning toward the exit. He started his own engine, pulled out, and fell in behind the tanker. Its size made it easy to follow, and he took up position a few car lengths back. He checked his watch. It was almost 6:00 A.M. Even better. The truck driver was probably a little behind schedule. They were heading into the first wave of the morning rush hour.
Jane Kelly cursed her luck that rainy morning. The darkness and wet streets had slowed traffic, and that, combined with a five-minute delay in getting out the door, had completely screwed up her timing. If she wasn’t pulling into the garage at work by 6:45, backups and traffic jams slowed her down and then she didn’t get in until 7:30. Her boss was going to raise merry hell again.
Right now, at 7:10, the thirty-three-year-old CPA maneuvered her three-year-old Nissan through the clogged traffic, heading north on 1–5. She sighed. At least it was moving this morning. She didn’t notice Hamid Algar’s car behind her, any more than she noted the tanker truck one car ahead. Cars behind her weren’t a problem, and those in front were merely obstructions. The tractor-trailer ahead was a large one, and it blocked her view of the lane forward, but what would she see? Just more wet cars.