Kealey waited in silence. He could tell there was more.
“This man, sounds like Michael Lohani, the man Julie Harper mentioned to her husband,” Mathis went on. “The one she called security on.”
“Do you know anything about Lohani?” the president asked.
“He checked into the Hilton last night at seven twenty,” Mathis read from a laptop. “The reservation was prebooked by a travel agent who made it on behalf of a Yemeni firm, International Pharmaceuticals. Neither the company nor any of its principals are on any hot lists.”
“It’s Yemen,” Carlson said angrily. “What are the odds that it can be one hundred percent clean?”
There was an uncomfortable silence. Brenneman had resisted imposing stricter sanctions on the terrorist hotbed for fear-as he put it in an executive white paper on policy in Yemen-of “poking the cat with sticks.” Brenneman had even crossed out the original word, dog, for fear of insulting Sana’a.
“What about the hostage takers?” Kealey asked. “Anything come up with the fingerprints?”
“Nothing,” replied Andrews.
Kealey took a belated bite of his sandwich. “Damned strange. The guys I faced were well trained.”
“They could have been mercs,” Admiral Breen offered.
“Possibly,” Kealey said. “They certainly didn’t seem as anxious as that Lohani guy. The problem with that, though, is that not only did they seem ready to die, but it looked to me like they were planning on it, going out in a firefight.”
“How is that any different from the Taliban or the Chechens or the mujahideen?” the president asked.
“These men were a disparate group of nationals on foreign soil,” Kealey said. “You just don’t see that level of cooperation, skill and, frankly, intelligence in that kind of fighter. They are angry, knee-jerk reactionaries. One man I spoke with said words to the effect, ‘The more languages one speaks, the better one knows other men.’ ”
“A goddamn philosopher,” Carlson snickered.
“Exactly,” Kealey said. “Not your garden-variety crazy.”
“He could have been quoting the Koran,” Andrews pointed out.
“The man was clean shaven,” Kealey said. “He just didn’t have a jihadist vibe.”
“Here’s something else, Mr. President,” Mathis said. “A month ago, a room at the Hilton was booked for this weekend by an Iranian expat named Amal Geybullah. He was a poli-sci student at Georgetown, graduated in twenty ten, and has been working as the manager of the hotel gift shop.”
“That’s an odd career choice,” Carlson remarked.
“Not if you’re looking to get legitimized and to network before putting yourself in a venue that has international clientele,” Kealey said.
Carlson sat back, grumping. He did not seem pleased to have been corrected. Especially by someone who had no real standing here.
“Where is Amal now?” Andrews asked.
“He hasn’t been back at his apartment since this morning,” Mathis said. “We checked. He has a roommate, someone who found the place on Craigslist. Says he doesn’t know much about him.”
“Could be a civilian casualty,” Kealey suggested.
“It’s possible,” Andrews agreed. “They’ve only just begun clearing away the sky bridge.
“Do we know who stayed in that room?” Carlson asked.
“Amal told a clerk his family was coming to visit him,” Mathis said. “He requested a total of five swipe cards.”
“That didn’t seem unusual?” the president asked.
“Apparently not, sir,” Mathis said. “A lot of tourists get keys for each family member.”
“Is the room intact?” Kealey asked.
“As far as we know,” Mathis said. “Except for smoke, that section of the hotel doesn’t seem to have been affected. A couple of agents are en route.”
“Anything else?” the president asked the table.
No one spoke. Brenneman regarded Kealey. “You were the only one on-site while all this was going on. What’s your gut tell you?”
Kealey had taken another bite of his sandwich. He chewed thoughtfully before answering. “Mr. President, the entire time I was in there, I did not feel that I was facing a terrorist attack. It felt more like a deployment.”
“You don’t mean tactically, do you?” Admiral Breen asked. There was a knowing look in his eyes.
“No, Admiral,” Kealey said. “It was well executed, yes. But it didn’t have the mission zeitgeist you get from taking a hill or securing a compound.”
“You lost me,” Carlson said. “Mission zeitgeist?”
“The spirit of the thing,” the admiral said, his eyes fixed admiringly on Kealey. “I believe Mr. Kealey is referring to a missing sense of completeness. Every battle has that, even a losing one.”
“Exactly, sir,” Kealey said. “We haven’t seen anything about this online, and probably won’t, because I don’t believe these killers were there to die for a stated cause.”
“I’m still not following,” Carlson said.
Kealey leaned forward. He regarded Brenneman. “Frankly, Mr. President, this felt to me like a beachhead. The big opening salvo of a war.”
He had made his way up the stairwell of the hotel, the half mask of the PBA pressed to his face. The soft, flexible silicone piece conformed to his face and provided a double exhalation valve system that minimized resistance. The oxygen for the portable breathing apparatus was attached to his back, on top of the black bulletproof vest.
The young man moved quickly, a. 45-caliber semiautomatic in his black-gloved right hand, pointed at a low angle, his eyes alert. Arriving at the third floor, he pushed slowly through the fireproof door. Ordinarily locked from this side to prevent ingress, the heavy steel doors opened automatically in the event of a fire.
The hallway was empty. He glanced up at the nearest corner. As promised, there were no security cameras here. Because the stairwell doors were locked, there was no need. The only cameras were located at the elevator.
He turned left, as instructed, and made his way to room 306. Upon arriving, he pulled the swipe key from his vest pocket and popped the door. His breathing loud in his ears, he entered, shutting the door behind him and swinging the security lock into place. He replaced the swipe key and removed the mask. Except for the smell, the air didn’t seem dangerous.
The room was empty, but he moved through it cautiously, checking the bathroom and closet before making his way to the dresser. Crouching, he opened the bottom drawer. There were three marbles inside. Removing them, he dropped them in the same pocket as the key. After checking the other drawers-they were all empty-he went back to the door. He stood behind it, a foot or so into the room.
There were voices in the hallway. He went to the door, listened. Though he was half expecting it, he started as he heard the swipe key shoved into the lock. The door clicked, one of the people pushed, and it caught on the lock.
“What the hell?” said one of the people outside the door, his voice muffled. He was also wearing a facepiece. He was either FBI or Baltimore FD.
Shit. How did they find it so fast? thought the young man in the room.
He moved quietly to the window. It was too big a drop to the street, and there were people outside.
He swore again to himself. He had come here to make sure the room was clean. Now there was only one way he was getting out. And it had to be fast.
He put the mask back on and returned to the door. It was still open about an inch and a half. He jumped back as a pair of shoulders hit it.
The jamb cracked but did not give. He had only moments…
Rushing to the door, he shoved the. 45 through the opening and fired four times. There were muted cries, the sound of fabric dragging along the metal door, and then two simultaneous thuds. He listened, heard moaning. He leaned out the newly widened opening, aimed at the moaning bundle, and shot it through the mask.