minuscule allusion of subliminal madness. He smiled and said, “I’ll ignore that comment because I know you’re under extreme duress to find your friend, Jason, and to recover the HEU that
“One of those crazies is your contact Mohammed Sharif. You’re busted, pal-”
“And you’re under arrest!” Gates looked at his watch and then the digital clock. “Hold him, Eric. I have to take a conference call with the director and the vice president. I’ll address your comments in fifteen minutes. In the meantime, Sean O’Brien, you’re in federal custody. Do not attempt to leave this room or you will be shot.” He stood to leave, his eyes holding onto the movement of the caterers through the open door in the adjacent room. He licked his dry lips and left through the main entrance.
Lauren said, “Okay, now what?”
“He knows Borshnik personally,” O’Brien said.
“But you can’t prove that.”
“He just did,” Hunter said.
“You agree?” Lauren asked.
“Yeah, I do. Gates is very good, but there was something in the way he looked, or maybe it was the way O’Brien was looking at him, but the truth was hitting Gates right between the eyes, and he flinched.”
“Now,” Dave said, “what are you going to do about it? Arrest him?”
“Let’s bring in Robert Miller,” Lauren said.
O’Brien said nothing. He watched the door that Gates had exited. Then he looked at his watch. 11:56 a.m.
Lauren said, “Food smells good. My blood sugar’s down. I need a quick bite.” She smiled, got up and walked into the serving room, followed by a few agents.
Hunter said, “O’Brien, how long have you suspected Gates?”
“How long have you been watching him?”
“Was it that obvious?”
“Only once.”
Hunter smiled and shook his head. “And one day you’ll tell me when, right?”
Dave said, “Maybe you can talk Sean into joining the Agency.”
O’Brien said, “Right now we’ve got to find Borshnik. For all I know, Gates is outside, smoking a cigarette and calling Borshnik-” O’Brien felt his words tighten in his throat. From across the room, under the flat light of the fluorescents, he could see directly into the service room. The man in a white windbreaker turned and looked up at the ceiling, his body facing east. O’Brien saw the man talking to himself. Or was he praying? Praying to Allah.
“NO! DOWN!” O’Brien yelled.
“What-” Dave uttered.
“There!” Hunter pointed.
Lauren came across the threshold, a plate of food in her hands, a smile on her face. O’Brien felt the world stop. Time measured in disjointed increments of human movement. The numbers on the digital clock-frozen.
The click of Lauren’s heels-silent.
The drone of the command center-gone.
The man in the white jacket opened his eyes. Prayer finished. His right hand slipping inside the jacket in a faltering movement, like film caught in the gate.
Lauren’s smile dropped. Her mouth made an O. She turned her head to look behind her as the jacket disintegrated into a ball of white heat. The explosion turned the wall separating the rooms into dust. The force of the bomb knocked O’Brien to the ground, heat radiating through the command center like a blast furnace.
O’Brien was flat on his back, ceiling tiles raining around him. Electricity arching through shattered wires, fire sprinklers gushing water. The smoke billowed forcefully as if it were an angry cloud in extreme weather. Visibility zero. Pain seared from his left shoulder, the heat of his blood trapped between skin and clothes.
O’Brien could hear nothing. Then a ringing swelled in his ears. It faded and he heard the sounds of agony, pain and imminent death rise up from the smoke and charred furniture, walls and floor. A woman made inhuman grunts and shrieks. A man whimpered and begged for his mother. Sobbing meshed into wailing. O’Brien crawled on his hand and knees. He found Dave Collins knocked out cold. A pulse, but faint, blood oozing from his forehead.
A cough. Eric Hunter held his shoulder with one bleeding hand. His hair was covered in a white powder, pieces of dry-wall sticking to it.
“You okay?” O’Brien asked.
“Think so,” Hunter said.
“Dave’s out. He’s breathing, but his pulse is weak.” O’Brien kept low, face near the floor, crawling in the direction he’d last seen Lauren. His hands slipped in blood and wet brain matter scattered like red oatmeal on the floor. He could smell coppery odors mixed with the scent of C-4, gun powder, and burning electrical fires.
A woman moaned. “Lauren! I’m here!” O’Brien crawled fifty feet though rubble and the sticky heat of blood and body parts. Lauren was on her back, one leg bent at an awkward right angle. Her white blouse ripped, the remaining fabric soaked red.
O’Brien knelt over her. His hands trembled as he wiped the blood from her face, gently pushing hair from her eyes. Her breathing raspy. She looked up at O’Brien, her eyes filling with tears. “Hold me, Sean. I can’t feel my legs … hold me.”
O’Brien lowered his body to hers, his cheek touching her face, his hands holding her shoulders. He could feel the warmth of tears run from her eyes and down to his lips. He could hear the labored breathing, the erratic muscle spasms of her body.
Sirens screamed in the distance. “Hold on … help’s coming. You’ll be in the hospital in a few minutes.”
“Sean, it’s okay-”
“Just breathe … easy … you’ll be fine-”
“I can’t see you. Sean ….”
“I’m here. Just breathe easy. They’re coming. Stay with me, Lauren!”
She coughed. O’Brien leaned up and wiped blood from her lips. “Don’t let Gates get away with it. He’s hurt too many people ….”
“Don’t talk … rest.”
She reached up with one hand. O’Brien held it, squeezed gently, hoping to somehow squeeze full life back into her body. “Find Jason ….” Her smile quivered. “You’re a good and decent man, Sean. You care about people … and I’ve always cared deeply for you and ….” Lauren’s chest heaved, gasping for air.
“No! Help’s coming! Lauren! Just breathe easy. Fight it!”
She stopped breathing, her blue eyes open, the light fading in the dust and smoke.
O’Brien held her hand. He leaned down to kiss her forehead, a single tear falling from his eye and mixing with her blood.
CHAPTER EIGHTY-TWO
Mike Gates drove the speed limit, stopping for the convoy of police and emergency vehicles streaming toward the federal building. The only visible anxiety was the size of the sweat stain, which had grown into large, dark patches on his blue dress shirt. The odor of garlic from last night’s meal mixed with adrenaline and rose in an acrid blend from his pores. The taste in his mouth was like metal, hard water and rust. He used his cell phone.
“Yes,” Boris Borshnik said.
“I’ve been exposed!”
“How?”
“O’Brien! The fucking ex-cop! I don’t know how. I have to leave the country within the hour. I need asylum in Russia, with a guarantee I’ll be left alone.”
“No problem. You can be on an Aeroflot jet and routed from Miami to Moscow.”
“I’ll need papers, passport and money.”
