newspapers claiming responsibility for the attack in the name of the New Aryan Order, a little-known, extreme right-wing group. The callers have been quoted as demanding that ‘the white race in America begin a war of purification.’ ”
The CNN anchorwoman appeared on camera, still clearly shaken. “We will bring you the latest information on this tragedy as it arrives…”
Thorn snapped the television off and Helen turned back to the phone. Lang was still waiting on the line for her. “Jesus Christ, John.”
“Yeah. It’s pretty bad.” The HRT commander fell silent for a few seconds. When he spoke again, his voice was calmer. “How long will it take you to get to D.C., Helen?”
“Forty-five minutes,” she replied, already sorting out her clothes from the pile on the floor.
“Good. The Director is putting together a special task force to investigate this bombing, and I’m putting you and your section on it.”
Helen nodded. The evidence was that this was a terrorist attack. If they could pinpoint the people responsible, whoever headed the task force would need an HRT force under his immediate command to round them up. “Who’s in charge? Not McDowell, I hope.”
The ghost of a smile sounded in Lang’s reply. “No, not McDowell. They’re flying Mike Flynn in from San Francisco.”
Flynn. The name tugged at Helen’s memory. “The guy who investigated the Golden Gate Bridge bomb attack?” “That’s him,” Lang said. “He’ll be here by seven. I want you here to meet him and the rest of the task force. I’ll brief you on the other details in person.”
“Understood.” Helen hit the disconnect button and started throwing on clothes with reckless haste. She could sort out her appearance in one of the women’s washrooms at the Hoover Building later. The most important thing was to get on the road before the highways clogged up for the afternoon rush hour.
Her last sight of Peter Thorn as she hurried out of his town house was his frustrated face. He’d spent his career preparing to hit terrorists overseas and now all the action had shifted to the U.S. out of his jurisdiction and out of his control.
CHAPTER 12
PRESSURE COOKER
Under a dismal, overcast November sky, throngs of onlookers, reporters, and camera crews pressed against the police barricades deployed to maintain a security zone around the bomb-gutted National Press Office building. The FBI-led task force charged with investigating the bombing had sealed an area a full city block wide around the crime scene.
Helen Gray stopped short of the police line, taking a good hard look at the organised pandemonium gripping the area just two blocks from the White House. Parked squad cars, ambulances, fire engines, and official vehicles belonging to nearly a dozen different federal and District of Columbia governmental agencies jammed almost every square foot of Fourteenth Street. Hard-faced D.C. police officers, wearing rain gear against the impending storm, manned the barricades, checking identity cards before allowing anyone in or out of the secure zone. (jars and trucks were backed up noseto-tail for blocks in every direction.
The entire downtown was in gridlock, generated by the bomb-related street closures and by the tidal surge of the morbidly curious who were flocking to the site. To avoid the worst of it, Helen had walked from her temporary office at the Hoover Building instead of trying to drive the relatively short distance. This was her first visit to evaluate the evidence accumulated in the first few hours of the investigation. She’d stayed away until now to allow the technical experts some room to work. But from the number of vehicles parked outside the press club, she was one of only a handful of people in official Washington who had been able to resist the temptation to play backseat driver.
“You still think this is a good idea?” Peter Thorn said quietly into her right ear, eyeing the crowded street in front of them. “I’ve an idea that your bosses might not welcome another busybody poking his nose into their business just now.”
Helen turned toward him. Like her, he was in civilian clothes instead of uniform. With the media already deep in a feeding frenzy over the press club bombing, neither saw any point in attracting attention to themselves. She shook her head decisively. “You’re a recognised expert on terrorist tactics and weapons, Peter. I’d hardly call somebody with your experience a busybody.”
“Maybe you wouldn’t. But I’d say you’re biased.” He smiled tightly.
“Truth is, this is way off my patch and you know it.”
Helen shrugged. “So? Last time I looked, the Bureau didn’t have a monopoly on brainpower. You might see something our people have missed. And if you don’t, there’s still no harm done.”
Privately, she was less certain about the wisdom of her actions. She’d invited Peter to come along on her own initiative without permission from Special Agent Flynn. Some of her reasoning was soundly professional. But she couldn’t deny that many of her reasons were more personal. And by involving an outsider in an FBI investigation, she risked a reprimand if Flynn officially objected to his presence despite the kudos she’d earned by smashing the Temple Emet attack. She looked inward for a moment, again considering whether or not she was willing to accept a black mark on her near-perfect record for his sake.
The answer was yes.
She still remembered that look of anguished frustration on Peter’s face when they first heard the news about the bombing. Standing idle on the sidelines in the aftermath of the deadliest terrorist attack in U.S. history would have been more than he could bear. Besides, Helen admitted to herself, she treasured every moment spent in his company. Being completely separated from him for the long days and nights her work on the task force would probably require might have been more than she could bear. If involving him meant breaking every single one of her precepts about keeping her work and personal lives separate, so be it.
Certainly, the prospect of even an unofficial role in the search for the press club bombers had worked wonders on Peter. Despite his worries that his presence might get her in hot water, he couldn’t hide his eagerness to join in the hunt an eagerness that mirrored her own. The death toll from the attack was still climbing as crews found more bodies inside the wreckage, but it had already soared to nearly two hundred. She wanted to find the terrorists who were responsible for the blood bath to find them and destroy Hem before they could strike again.
Helen felt something patter down on her hair and looked skyward. The first full drops of cold rain spattered across her upturned face. She grimaced. There probably weren’t any significant clues outside the building for the storm to wash away, but the worsening weather would make their job even harder and more depressing than it already was. At least it might thin some of the crowds surrounding the explosion site.
She tugged at Peter’s elbow. “Come on, Colonel Thorn. Let’s get inside.”
He nodded gravely. “After you, Agent Gray.”
They made their way through the milling crowds to the police line. A young cop stepped forward to meet them. His rain poncho whipped in a sudden gust of cold wind. “Sorry, folks. You’ll have to move back. No one’s allowed any further.”
Helen pushed her Bureau ID under his nose. “I’m on the task force.” She nodded toward Peter, who held his own identity card in plain view.
“Colonel Thorn is a liaison officer from the Pentagon.”
The policeman scanned both cards quickly but thoroughly, carefully comparing the pictures with their faces. He looked up. “Okay, you can come through.” He pointed toward a temporary trailer parked just outside the entrance to the National Press Office building. “Just sign in at the command post, please. You’ll be briefed on site protocol there.”
The rain was falling even harder by the time Peter Thorn and Helen Gray strode across the narrow gap between the command trailer and the press building. Both of them carried sealed bags containing sterile, white
