hard time holding it steady in the crowd. Vanderveen knew that with all the people currently spread out over the marina, the Service would never be able to land a helicopter. So it was either the cars or a boat, and he felt a little bit better when it appeared that the agents were moving the French and Italian leaders back toward the cars. His earlier reconnaissance of the waterfront had served him well, and he might still be able to salvage some of his plan.
It was only then that he realized, with a sudden feeling of dread, that he had missed the whole point. Why had they pulled the president off the podium in the first place? He felt a tingle of fear as he stood up and turned to look out the window. What he saw turned the fear to shock in an instant.
It couldn’t be, he thought, but try as he might, there was no denying it: the person standing on Pennsylvania north of the plaza, held at gunpoint by the same police officer Vanderveen had talked to earlier, was none other than Ryan Kealey.
He nearly smiled at the scene. There was something almost comforting about the sight of his former commanding officer — it was like seeing a living link to the past. There was something vaguely amusing about it, too; after all, it wasn’t every day that a former Delta operator was caught out by a rookie cop, and that kid in particular didn’t look as if he belonged anywhere near a loaded firearm. Ryan must be getting sloppy.
Then the smile faded as he realized that they probably weren’t alone. The Bureau’s Hostage Rescue Team might already be surrounding the hotel, and they wouldn’t be interested in merely arresting a man who had killed eight of their own.
The decision came in a heartbeat: it was time to cut his losses. He had flipped the switch in the cab two hours earlier, right before his conversation with the police officer. Everything was ready. Vanderveen picked up his. 40 caliber USP and jammed it into the waistband of his jeans, then pulled on his long, heavy coat to conceal the bulge. In his pocket was the cell phone, which he withdrew as soon as he stepped into the hall.
He briefly wondered how much of the blast he would feel in the shelter of the hotel, then decided that he didn’t care. He couldn’t wait for the motorcade, but for all the failure of the day, there was one small feeling of triumph: Ryan Kealey would not live to see the end of it.
Walking down the hall toward the elevators, Vanderveen flipped open the cell phone and pushed and held the number 1.
They were making some progress, but the young officer still had his 9mm trained on Kealey’s chest. “You come running down here with no ID, waving a gun, and now you say there’s a bomb in this van? I… look, I can’t let you in there.”
Ryan couldn’t understand why they weren’t already dead. Was this the wrong vehicle? Had he made a mistake? “I’m getting into this van,” he said. It wasn’t a request, and he began to move cautiously back to the passenger-side door. “Shoot me if you have to, but I’m getting in.”
The gun wavered, then finally dropped. “Shit! I’m not gonna shoot you.” Howson slipped Ryan’s weapon into his holster, lowering his own to his side. Then, a second later: “What do I do?”
Ryan opened the door from the inside, flinching when he realized that he hadn’t checked for a trip wire. “You talked to the guy?”
The officer nodded and pointed to his right. “Yeah, I think he went in there.”
Ryan glanced toward the dark gray facade of the JW Marriott hotel. He pulled his cell phone out of his pocket and handed it over while simultaneously turning his attention back to the van. “Speed dial 3, then ask for Rivers.” He was glad he had stored her number. “Tell her where to come… Don’t go into that building.”
Ryan was in the cab a few seconds later, head down and busy as the police officer raced toward the hotel. In his right hand Howson carried the standard-issue 9mm Glock. In his left hand he held nothing, as he had already slipped the cell phone into his pocket and promptly forgotten about it.
Vanderveen stopped dead in the hall, staring in disbelief at the message on the cell phone’s display: Network Unavailable. What the fuck did that mean? He cursed low, under his breath, and didn’t notice when a passing woman shot him a disapproving glare.
He hoped it wasn’t the hotel. For all of his planning, he had not anticipated this possibility. If it was something to do with the building materials, he’d have to get outside before he could get a signal. That was thirty seconds in the elevator, forty seconds through the makeshift hall leading to The Shops at National Place, and another twenty seconds through the stores themselves to F Street. He knew because he had already timed it. Ninety seconds total — more than enough time for any number of unpleasant things to occur. Plenty of time for Ryan to get into the hotel, and more than enough time for the HRT to set up a hasty perimeter.
Maybe it wouldn’t come to that. He pushed and held the button a second time, willing his creation to do its work.
Ryan was in the van for less than five seconds when he found what didn’t fit. His hand was sweeping between the seats when it banged into a boxy metal object. Shifting his weight over the seat to stare down at it, he couldn’t see what practical purpose it might have served. It looked like a cover of some kind, but when he tried to lift it, it didn’t budge. Then he pulled on the other end and it came right up. He flinched, waiting for the inevitable blast. When nothing happened, he looked down and saw a single switch.
He flipped it without hesitation. Leaning back in the seat, breathing hard from fear and the long sprint, his mind raced to figure out what had just transpired.
Two seconds later, sounding distant through the thin steel partition, Ryan heard the unmistakable high- pitched tone as a cell phone began to ring somewhere in the cargo area.
After another few seconds had passed, he looked in the rearview mirror to see a procession of black limousines turn from 12th onto Pennsylvania at breakneck speed, only to make another sharp turn onto 13th a split second later.
Jared Howson burst into the lobby with his gun up, oblivious to the wide-eyed stares and screams that accompanied his entrance.
A security guard was standing just inside the door, but didn’t move to interfere with the policeman or the gun in his hand. Howson turned right toward the concierge, scrambling to recall the name he had seen on the passport.
“Bidault! Claude Bidault! What’s his room number?” No one responded. They just stared at him with their hands held high. “WHAT’S THE ROOM NUMBER?”
One of the men finally grabbed a keyboard, his hands shaking. “Bidault?” Howson nodded impatiently. “Room 545,” the concierge said. “Elevators are that way.”
But Howson was already gone, the Glock 9mm down low in a two-handed grip. He moved fast toward the elevators, then caught a flash of a dark green oilskin jacket and stopped instinctively, trying hard to remember. He had seen that jacket somewhere before… He sprinted past the atrium toward the escalators.
Kealey moved into the hotel with less fanfare, but everyone knew why he was there. A few fingers pointed him past guest registration on the main lobby level.
Indecision for a moment. He didn’t have a weapon, but Vanderveen was running and would soon be gone. Hold or follow? A glimpse of a Metro PD uniform at the top of the escalator made the decision for him.
He moved in that direction, only to find his path was blocked by a large security guard. The man had a radio up and was speaking into it urgently. He turned his attention to Kealey: “Stop right there, sir! I said stop!”
Ryan slowed to a fast walk, his hands up in front of his chest, palms out in a conciliatory gesture. “I have a reservation here. I’m sorry for the trouble, I’m just late meeting someone…”
He hit the security guard hard in the solar plexus, then lifted his knee into the man’s face. The guard fell back, tumbling into a coffee cart and sending several steaming urns crashing to the floor.
Ryan was aware of swarming blue uniforms in his peripheral vision as he sprinted up the escalator. He was passing covered glass doors when he heard a popping noise up ahead, and then what sounded like two more shots carrying over the cries of terrified onlookers.
He picked up the pace as the screams intensified in volume.
Howson knew he was moving too fast, but he was young and his adrenaline was through the roof. More importantly, there was an open area up ahead, and he’d definitely caught another flash of the oilskin jacket.
The whole way, from the van to the lobby, the lobby to the escalator, the escalator to here — all forty-five seconds of it — all he could think about was the story it would make. He couldn’t wait to tell it on the old man’s porch… There was no little voice, nothing inside telling him to slow it down, otherwise there wouldn’t be any story, and he was running hard. He saw light spilling from left to right at the end of the hall, heard the sound of a bustling
