She nodded, sensing the arrests were what he wanted. That they were all he wanted. “That’s great news, sir.”
“It is indeed. So no need for you to burn the midnight oil. I think on this one, the glory will go to the FBI.”
She watched him stroll away. God, that was creepy. The way he’d appeared like some kind of apparition. But maybe it had been good. An opportunity to assess him. And to assure him she’d found nothing.
Haystack, though. She hated that metaphor. How was piling more and more hay on a stack going to help anyone find a needle? What was needed was the equivalent of metal detectors, or magnets, or something. Which was what she’d always tried to do, to find elegant solutions, automated systems for cutting to the signal, not ways of adding ever more noise. And she’d been good at it. She had been. If it hadn’t been for her, no one would ever even have known about Perkins and Hamilton, until it had been too late. It wouldn’t be her problem now. She wouldn’t be faced with… with whatever she was faced with.
Which was what, exactly?
Something. Something big and dangerous and involving the director. But beyond that, she didn’t know. She was just scared, and felt like she wasn’t thinking as clearly as she needed to.
It’s okay. You told him you didn’t find anything, right?
Right. And besides, how sure could she really be that the bombing had been an inside job? Yes, the director had the means. And, she supposed, the opportunity. But what would be the motive? Something with Hamilton, maybe wasn’t exactly a motive that would stand up in court, or even to logic.
You told him you didn’t find anything. And you’re not going to tell him. It’s okay. Nothing’s going to happen.
She almost believed it. And at the moment, almost felt like enough.
CHAPTER
25
Traffic was light on the way from work that evening, many people having stayed home when the news of the bombing had broken that morning. Police cars were all over, though, along with huge black armored police vehicles procured from the military, many of them with gun turrets on top. Helicopters were everywhere, too, and beyond them, she suspected, lurking unseen, surveillance drones, and maybe armed ones, too. She had to pass through several checkpoints manned by soldiers in army combat uniforms, M16s at the ready. It all would have felt surreal in any event, but combined with what she had seen at work earlier it was dizzying, phantasmagoric, something from an exceptionally bad dream.
She had on the radio — local news about two shootings, a burglary, a fire in Anacostia police suspected was arson — but she was only half listening. She was still thinking about her encounter with the director, wondering if she’d assessed things accurately, wondering if she’d managed to give him what he wanted. And then she heard the announcer say, “And this shocking murder: a homeless man, in Congressional Cemetery, with his throat cut. Police suspect a dispute with another man who was sleeping in the cemetery and are questioning suspects.”
Her hand flew to her mouth. It couldn’t be a coincidence. It had to be him — the man who had stepped behind the truck, and presumably planted the device on it, who had disappeared through the cemetery… he had murdered someone there, too. She didn’t know why. A chance encounter? Someone who could identify him, who therefore needed to be silenced?
This was important. An important lead. She had to tell someone. She was afraid, but she had to.
The announcer suddenly stopped and said, “This just in. American forces have attacked a terrorist training camp in Azaz, Syria, in retaliation for this morning’s horrific bombing in downtown DC. We have reports of drones and cruise missiles. The president will be giving an address from the Oval Office in fifteen minutes. Stay with us and hear it live right here.”
The news made her head spin. Hamilton was being held in Syria, right? Of course, he could be anywhere in the country — there was no reason to believe he was in Azaz in particular. Still, it all felt… connected. But the connections were so hazy. She could sense, but not see them.
And besides, how could this be the payoff for an inside job, even if the bombing had been an inside job? Okay, maybe someone was trying to draw America into Syria’s civil war, but there were so many other ways to do it. Maybe if someone started floating the idea that the Syrian government had been behind the bombing that morning, she could accept that there was some kind of conspiracy at work here. But until then, attacking a training camp just wasn’t a convincing purpose or motivation.
She was still in the car when the president’s address was carried live on the radio. “As many of you have doubtless already heard,” he said, “earlier this evening, on my command, the defense forces of the United States carried out drone and cruise missile strikes on a terrorist training compound in northern Syria. Within this compound, our intelligence agencies confirmed, were the terrorists who plotted and directed this morning’s barbaric attack on the innocent residents of our nation’s capital. These terrorists — now former terrorists — will never again have an opportunity to carry out their atrocities.
“In addition to our military response to this morning’s tragedy, the FBI has just arrested several suspects here on American soil. We expect information from these suspects will aid us in preventing other plots, and in neutralizing other terrorists.
“As much as we wish it were otherwise, we must recognize that our intelligence, security, and military forces will never be able to prevent every single attack launched against our nation. But let me be clear. As our response today has shown, for anyone who manages such an attack, or who promotes, plans, or participates in one, you will face American justice. And make no mistake, that justice will be swift. It will be certain. And it will be severe. Thank you, and God bless America.”
There was follow-up commentary, but she barely heard it. She didn’t like any of it, didn’t like it at all. But what did it mean? And anyway, what could she do about it?
At home, she made dinner for Dash, then helped him with his homework. Somehow the routine, being in their apartment, spending time with her beautiful boy, served to settle her. Something was going on, that much was clear, but it was all above her pay grade and there was no reason to believe any of it was going to affect her. She had given no one any reason to worry. Or at least, no real reason. She didn’t need to decide tonight. She could figure it out in the morning.
Once Dash was in bed, she took a shower, keeping the phone close in case Marvin texted. But he didn’t. Well, maybe it had been a bit much to hope he’d get in touch right after returning from his trip. She was worried that he was done, that he wouldn’t call her at all. But that was stupid. She had no meaningful data, no way of really knowing.
After her shower, she changed into sweats and poured herself a glass of wine, then sat in the living room with the lights low, just trying to relax and unwind.
She looked at her phone. Maybe she was being stupid, waiting for him to contact her. She hadn’t waited for him to make the first move last time, had she? And he certainly hadn’t minded when she took the initiative.
The hell with it.
She texted him. Hey, how was the trip?
Her phone chimed less than a minute later and her heart leaped. It was fine. Just got back.