"All right. So you got him?"
"Not quite."
"What do you mean?"
"He passed through Tijuana last week, right before we shut down the border."
"OK. So where is he now?"
"He's in Washington."
"Microsoft Washington?"
"No — here—our Washington. The Metro police cleared him across the Fourteenth Street Bridge yesterday afternoon."
"Oh my God. He's here?"
"Somewhere."
"How could he have gotten in with explosives, or weapons?"
"We don't think he could have. Best guess — he's got a sleeper here in the city with prepositioned weapons, possibly C4."
"What are you thinking, car bomb?"
"I don't know. He rented a car in Mexico City, then switched it in San Diego. One of my guys is talking to the rental agency right now."
"Do we have a license plate?"
"We do. D.C. police took it down last night — routine procedure."
"What about a photo?"
"Yes, we've got the one on the passport."
"Is this guy in our system?"
"No — not in ours, not in the FBI database, Secret Service, or the CIA. We have no idea who he is. But, Mr. President, right now he's our prime suspect."
"And he's here."
"Yes, sir. The Joint Task Force is putting everyone on alert — all federal law enforcement, obviously, plus the Metro Police, Park Police, Capitol Hill Police, you name it. With your permission, we'd like to give this guy's name and photo to the media immediately. It'll raise the panic level, sir, but getting the public on the lookout for this guy could make all the difference."
"Do it."
"We also need to shut down the city — airports, train stations, buses, bridges — no one in or out. Lock down the schools. And we propose assigning police units to every school and every government building."
"Lee, do what you have to do—just get this guy."
News Channel Four broke the story first.
The local NBC affiliate cut into the expanded hour of Today with a four-color photo of "Mario Iabello" and the chilling news. According to the Department of Homeland Security, Mr. Iabello was now wanted in connection with multiple violations of immigration law, should be considered armed and very dangerous, and was likely to be in Washington, D.C, at that very moment.
'Mr. President, it's Bud Norris at Secret Service." "Go ahead, Bud, I've got you on speaker phone." MacPherson huddled in the Situation Room with Bob Corsctti, Marsha Kirkpatrick, and the NSC's top counterterrorism specialists. All operations in the White House were being shut down and the grounds were swarming with heavily armed agents on high alert.
"Mr. President, I can report that Checkmate is safe. He's currently airborne, and en route to Location Six. Megaphone is at the Capitol. He's being taken to a secure underground facility. All other protectees are in the process of being taken to secure facilities as well. The Capitol's shut down and being reinforced with extra security even as we speak."
"Good, thanks — Lee, are you there?"
"Yes, sir, I'm here."
"And Scott Harris — you on the line, too?"
"Yes, Mr. President, I am."
"Good — I'm told we'll have the videoconference system back up in a moment. But Lee, let's start with you. What've you got?"
"Mr. President, we've just talked to the agency that rented Iabello's car."
"And?"
"All their cars have antitheft devices installed at the factory. We've got the frequency and the tracking codes and they're helping us to hunt it down right now."
"What do you mean — Lo Jack, that kind of thing?"
"Exactly, sir — a low-frequency homing device. We should have it in the next few—"
The Secretary's voice cut off.
"Lee, you still with us?" asked MacPherson. "This thing still work?"
"Yes, Mr. President, I'm still here — someone's bringing me the location right now. Hold on."
You could hear a pin drop in the Situation Room. Nobody said a word, though members of the VP's National Security staff were now slipping in as well. The TV sets lining the walls were all on mute. But every picture was the same — Mario Iabello — the suicide bomber who got away.
"Come on, come on," said the president, barely under his breath, and suddenly the secretary was back on the line.
"We've got it, Mr. President — the car is at the Willard."
"Oh my God, that's across the street."
FORTY-SEVEN
Within minutes, the hotel was surrounded.
News helicopters weren't flying. All non-law enforcement aircraft over D.C., Virginia, and Maryland were grounded instantly. But this was Washington. News cameras were everywhere. So were satellite trucks. In their homes and offices across the country, Americans watched the unfolding drama in horror. Sirens filled the air. Secret Service SWAT teams took the lead. They were, after all, based out of the Treasury Building not fifty yards from the Willard's front door. FBI Critical Response Units poured in as well, as did agents and bomb squad technicians from at least six different agencies.
Marcus Jackson's wireless phone began beeping.
Jackson cursed under his breath. He was sitting alone in the Starbucks around the corner from the Old Executive Office Building. Hard at work on his laptop, sipping a latte and trying to get a little work done, it was tough enough to concentrate with all the sirens outside. Something big was going down. But he was a political reporter. Let someone else chase ambulances. He reached into his briefcase, grabbed his phone, and turned it off. Sure enough, it was the assignment desk in New York.
Get a life, boys. The Times has other reporters. Call someone else.
The front door jingled. Jackson looked up and smiled. The man in a bulky green winter parka didn't smile back. He just glanced around the nearly empty store and left. Jackson shook his head and went back to the story on his laptop.
The Willard didn't have aboveground parking.
So close to the White House and major landmarks, there simply wasn't room. All vehicles receiving valet parking were kept underground. This posed additional dangers. If they sent a bomb squad unit in to find the car, Iabello could be waiting — in the garage or nearby. He could detonate the bomb with a remote switch and potentially bring half the block down with him. But they didn't have much choice. Finding the car and defusing the bomb in time might be their only option. If they were lucky, they'd be able to storm Iabello's room and catch him by surprise. But maybe he was watching the news.
Maybe he wasn't in the room at all.
Now his pager began going off.
Jackson couldn't believe it. He rolled his eyes and grabbed the little black box off his belt. He checked the number — his editor again—911. He hit the button on the top and again there was quiet. No peace, but at least a little quiet. Jackson scooped his phone out of his bag again and powered it up. It beeped again. Six messages. Already? He'd only had it off for a few minutes. He hit speed dial two and got his editor.
"Jackson, where the hell have you been?"
"I'm getting some coffee, working on a story."
"Forget the story — haven't you heard what's going on?"
"No, what?"
"The feds are tracking down a suicide bomber in D.C."
"Holy—"
"I've been trying to call you. Why aren't you at the White House?"
"I'm at Starbucks."
"Well, get over there. Murray's about to brief and we've got no one on point."
"Isn't Eicher back?"
"No. He's in St. Louis for the Senate race."