funds were still short. Nobody asked for an explanation, but Halovic wanted his cover story ready if anyone did.
Another length of cable connected the camera to the VCR. He checked the power light again. He didn’t bother checking the picture.
By the time Halovic finished, it was close to eleven o’clock. He stepped out into the lobby and stood in an out-of the-way corner, watching people come and go through narrowed eyes while he pretended to flip through a newspaper he’d bought at the nearest Metro station. He felt alone and increasingly secure. The point of maximum danger was behind him. His greatest fear during the setup had not been discovery by the minimal security forces present, but a simple encounter with another technician. He had studied the television equipment and media jargon as much as possible, but a professional would have spotted him as a phony in a heartbeat.
At about 11:20 A.M. Halovic looked up from the classified ads. Men and women in business attire were flowing past him, some talking, some laughing. The man at the table took their names and checked them off on a list. According to the schedule the Bosnian had memorised, the luncheon would begin at 11:30, with Steele’s speech and a question-and-answer session slated to begin at noon. The Bosnian buried his head in the paper again, waiting.
At 11:40 the man at the table counted up the names, nodded to himself, and turned the table so that it was tight up against the side of the entrance to the dining room. He left, and a few minutes later, a young woman walked up and placed several stacks of paper on the table. Copies of Steele’s oration, Halovic realized. The reverend evidently wanted to make sure his words were remembered and widely aired. Well, the Bosnian thought coldly, he could be sure of that.
He pushed off the wall and strolled back inside the dining room. Every chair around every table was filled, and the buzz of conversation and the clatter and clink of glasses and silverware were startlingly loud. He knelt, checked his VCR, and saw that all the junction boxes and the camera responded to a test signal. Good.
With a polite nod to the other cameramen closest to him, Halovic stepped up onto the media platform and manned his own minicam. He peered into the small viewfinder and swept the lens over the section of head table to the right of the speaker’s podium. Four men and two women sat there, but none of them were Steele. He panned left. Ah, there.
The Reverend Walter Steele was a tall black man in his late forties. His hair, though still untouched by gray, had receded slightly from his temples. He was dressed in a well tailored, dark grey suit, and a dazzling black, red, and green tie. As if the colorful tie were not bold enough, he had a piece of orange-striped kente cloth draped over his shoulders.
Halovic waited patiently, intent on the scene in front of him. Steele chatted with those closest to him all older, distinguished-looking men. The Bosnian recognized one as a senior member of the Congressional Black Caucus. Another headed the Washington bureau of one of America’s leading television networks.
He glanced down. His watch showed 12:04 P.M. One of the men at the head table pushed away his wineglass, stood up, and made his way to the microphones. The room quieted.
“Ladies and gentlemen, we’re honored this afternoon to have as our speaker the Reverend Walter Steele. He is a man whose many accomplishments are so well known that…”
Taking care not to disturb the camera, Halovic stepped back off the platform and walked quietly over to his VCR. The technicians and cameramen around him spoke in hushed tones now, respectful of the speaker but intent on their own business. He pressed a button on the VCR and saw a new row of green lights appear. The junction boxes were armed.
Satisfied, Halovic returned to the camera just as Steele stood up and took his place behind the podium. He peered through the viewfinder again. The image was a little off center, but the Bosnian ignored the picture.
Instead, he pressed the record and the focus buttons simultaneously. A flashing red dot appeared on the viewfinder image. A thin, ugly smile crossed his face and then vanished without a trace.
Without pausing, Halovic turned, stepped off the platform, and walked briskly out into the lobby. Ignoring the elevator, he took the stairwell down. As he trotted down the stairs, he stripped off the green windbreaker and reversed it so that it was a more sedate and less memorable blue. The blackframe glasses went into a spare pocket. He would dispose of both later and in a safer place.
He was outside and crossing Thirteenth Street on his way to the Metro Center station when the National Press Club vaporized in a searing sea of fire and shrapnel.
Each of the junction boxes Halovic had so carefully placed contained two pounds of plastic explosive and hundreds of small nails. The VCR, larger still, held five pounds of explosive. All were linked to a five-minute digital timer accurate to the milk-second. When the timer counted down to zero, the six separate bombs went off in one simultaneous, shattering blast.
Those few who survived said it was as if the air itself had exploded.
Driven by each explosion, fragments sleeted through the crowded dining room at thousands of feet per second, splintering tables, smashing glass and china, and ripping flesh apart. Dozens of men and women were killed instantly. Dozens more were maimed almost beyond recognition.
Caught by the bomb planted less than a foot from his stomach, the Reverend Walter Steele one of the most powerful and prominent black leaders in the United States was literally torn apart. His mangled remains were later identified only by dental records.
The members and guests seated closest to the speaker’s podium and the central aisle were wiped off the earth in the blink of an eye. Only a few, those furthest away, near the walls or corners of the dining room, survived.
They would later recount seeing the center of the room erupt in flame, feeling their lungs fill with choking smoke, and hearing the anguished screams of those who were dying. With shaking voices, they would describe it as a frozen moment of utter terror, of unimaginable horror.
Falls Church, Virginia Helen Gray shifted sleepily under the bedspread, curling up closer to Peter Thorn. Her right hand toyed with the curly hairs on his chest.
She felt his lips brush against her forehead and smiled in lazy contentment.
“You keep doing that with your fingers, lady, and you’ll have to take the dire consequences,” she heard him say in a mock-serious tone.
Helen’s smile widened and she opened her eyes. “Oh, good.” She rolled over on top of him.
She was on leave and Peter had taken the day off work at the Pentagon to spend some time with her. But their plans to tour a museum or two and eat lunch in the city had fallen prey to deeper, more passionate needs. And every hour she spent in his company helped her push away the dark memories of the carnage at Temple Emet.
Her cell phone rang.
“Damn it,” she growled. “Not now!”
Peter chuckled. “Go ahead and answer it, Agent Gray. I’ll stay right here. I promise.”
She poked a finger into his chest. “You’d better, Colonel Thorn. Don’t forget, I’m an officer of the law.” Then she slid out from under the covers and pulled her phone out from the tangle of clothing on his bedroom floor. “Gray.”
“Helen, this is Lang.” The HRT commander sounded strangely shaken. “I hate to disturb you, but I’m afraid your leave’s been canceled. I need you to meet me at Hoover ASAP.” “What’s up?” she demanded.
“Turn on CNN.”
Helen turned toward the television at the foot of Peter’s bed. Reacting to the sudden tension in her voice, he was already up and getting dressed. He saw her urgent gesture and switched the set on.
She gasped as the first pictures filled the screen. Fire trucks and ambulances crowded a city street near the center of Washington, D.C., surrounding a blast-shattered building. A dark haze hung over the site smoke from the still-burning structure.
“Recap what we know so far, at ten minutes after twelve this afternoon, a huge explosion ripped through the National Press Club during a speech by the Reverend Walter Steele, one of the country’s foremost civil rights leaders and a rumored candidate for the presidency. Unconfirmed reports from the scene indicate that Steele and as many as two hundred others were killed in the blast. Among those known to be attending the luncheon were several congressmen and high-ranking administration officials.” The CNN announcer’s voice wavered. “As well as some of the world’s top reporters, including several who work for this network.”
A poor-quality still photo of an American flag emblazoned with a swastika replaced the chaotic street scene. “Police sources have reported that, shortly after the blast, calls were received by the two major D.C. area
