The FBI man spread his hands. “Of course, this could be a whole new set of slimeballs calling themselves the New Aryan Order one we hadn’t picked up before. Hate groups don’t pay much attention to copyright laws.”
“Or they might be getting help from someone you don’t have on file yet,” Thorn suggested quietly. “Somebody with a good working knowledge of demolitions and security procedures.”
“You have a candidate in mind, Colonel?” Koenig asked, narrowing his eyes. “Does DOD have some psycho exRanger or Green Beret on the loose that we should know about? Is that why you’re here?”
Thorn shook his head and then stopped. He hadn’t seriously considered that possibility before. Much as he disliked the prospect, he had to admit that the FBI agent’s suggestion might have merit. The Army’s special forces put a great deal of effort into screening out the bad apples, but no psych profile ever developed could guarantee one hundred percent perfection.
“We might also be looking at an overseas link between extreme rightist groups,” Helen broke in. “Don’t forget those references to a German neo-Nazi we picked up from Burke and the rest during the synagogue siege. We know that Sword was getting sophisticated military supplies from old East German arsenals. Maybe this mysterious ‘Karl’ and his friends have started supplying military expertise as well.”
“Could be,” Koenig agreed slowly. Ties between the National Press Club bomber and a foreign terrorist group would complicate the whole investigation. Because the attack took place on U.S. soil, the FBI would still have primary jurisdiction, but the State Department, CIA, and Pentagon would have a much louder voice if there were a connection to radicals overseas.
Another agent joined the small circle, a taller, older man with slate-grey eyebrows and a harassed expression. The badge clipped to his protective suit read “Flynn.”
“What’s up, Tommy?”
Koenig swiveled toward his boss. “Just batting around a few theories, Mike. About whether or not the bastards who blew the hell out of this place were ex-military or might have had help from foreign terrorists.” He nodded toward Thorn. “This is Colonel Peter Thorn. He’s with the JSOC.”
“I see.” Flynn turned his gaze on Thorn, clearly taking in his lean, well-muscled form. “You’re with Delta Force, Colonel?”
Thorn nodded. “Until recently. I run a special intelligence outfit out of the Pentagon now.”
“I see.” Flynn’s gaze sharpened. “You’re not on my official observers’ list, Colonel.”
Thorn noticed Koenig and the other FBI agents stiffen. Hell. He nodded again, speaking before Helen could intervene on his behalf. If Flynn was going to be a hard-ass about this, there wasn’t any point in dragging her name and record through the procedural mud. “That’s right. I came down on my own hook.”
“I’ve already got more than four hundred agents and other personnel working this case, Colonel. Is there something we’re not doing to your satisfaction?” Flynn’s voice was dangerously quiet.
“No, sir.” Thorn stood his ground. With all the pressure the FBI agent was under from above, he couldn’t blame the older man for bristling at yet another outsider tramping through the crime scene. If their roles were reversed, he would probably feel much the same way. “But I’ve spent close to ten years studying terrorist tactics. I thought you might find that useful on an unofficial basis.”
“I see.” Flynn gritted his teeth. “Look, Colonel Thorn, besides the experts going over this building with a fine- tooth comb, I have agents out interviewing every survivor some under hypnosis. There are others checking the records of every parking garage and taxi company in the metropolitan area. I even have teams reviewing every inch of footage shot by the Metro security cameras for every station within walking distance just on the off chance we might spot something. So I’m going to ask you again. Is there some solid angle you think we’re missing?”
Reluctantly, Thorn shook his head. “No, sir. Not at the moment.”
“Fine. Then please go back to the Pentagon and let us get on with the job. There are already investigators from every damned agency and police force known to mankind crawling through this mess, and I sure as hell do not need the U.S. Army’s Delta Force adding its own two cents.” Flynn raised his voice, addressing his next comments to the poker-faced agents in earshot. “This is real life, not a movie, and this task force is not going to go running off at half cock to hunt for some supervillain. That’s not the way I work, and that’s not the way to produce results. Instead, we’re going to work systematically through the facts as they exist. I want hard evidence, not fancy theories. Is that clear?”
The senior FBI agent waited briefly to make sure the others had heard him before turning his attention back to Thorn. He lowered his voice again. “Wait until we’ve found these bastards, Colonel. Then you or Agent Gray here are perfectly welcome to shoot them.”
Great, Thorn thought, I didn’t fool him at all. He knows exactly who brought me inside.
Flynn looked at Koenig. “Have somebody escort the colonel through the security barrier, Tommy. I’m sure he has work of his own to do.”
Thorn nodded stiffly and did an about-face, following the shorter FBI agent back toward the staircase. He studiously avoided looking at Helen. Seeing the concern for him on her face would only make things worse. The FBI was within its rights, and he was out of line. But knowing that didn’t make it any easier just to walk away.
Thorn was alone in his office, staring at nothing in particular, when Joe Rossini stuck his head in through the door. “You have a minute, Pete?”
“Hell, I’ve got days.” Thorn heard the unfamiliar bitterness in his voice and clamped down on it. Self-pity was for five-year-olds He nodded toward the empty chair in front of his desk. “What can I do for you, Maestro?”
Rossini gingerly lowered his bulk into the seat and leaned forward.
“Heard you had a rough time of it with the FBI today.”
“Word travels fast.”
The analyst nodded. “Better than light-speed.”
Thorn snorted. He shrugged his shoulders. “I tried sticking my nose in where it didn’t belong and got slapped down. End of story. The FBI has the domestic counterterrorism ball, and we’re out of the game.”
“You really think that?” Rossini asked.
“No,” Thorn said flatly, surprising himself. He shook his head. “Flynn and his team are good. Hell, they’re better than good. But I can’t help feeling that we’re all behind the curve on this one. Somebody out there blew the shit out of the National Press Club, and he and his friends are still on the loose. Hunting these bastards down strictly by the book might take too damned long.”
“You think they’ll hit again,” Rossini said, more as a statement than a question.
“Why not? Whoever they are, they just killed two hundred people within walking distance of the White House. Why should they stop now?” Thorn sat up straighter. Flynn had every right to keep him off the official investigation, but the FBI couldn’t stop him from using the resources at his own disposal. But what more could he do? As part of a larger U.S. intelligence effort, his analysts were already pressing ahead to learn more about the suspected links between American neo-Nazis and those in Europe.
Then he remembered something Flynn’s deputy had said. “I think we should start pulling some personnel files from Army and Navy records. I want the name and service record of every Green Beret, Ranger, and SEAL who’s been booted for bad conduct, race prejudice, or mental problems. Say over the past fifteen years.”
Rossini whistled softly. “You really think we’re dealing with one of our own guys who’s gone off the reservation?”
“Maybe. Maybe not.” Thorn shook his head angrily. “I don’t know, Maestro. This could be just a worthless shot in the dark, but I’m damned if I’ll sit idly by while somebody starts burning this country down around our ears.”
Hamid Algar scouted the parking lot carefully and covertly. A chill, light rain was falling, and he zipped up his leather jacket, trying to get the collar tighter around his neck. The dampness seemed to soak into his bones. He hated the rain the way a soldier hates mud or dust or flies. The Syrian had seen nothing but rain since coming to Seattle. The climate was as foreign as the food and the language and the people. He sustained himself with the knowledge that this campaign would not last forever, and that however uncomfortable he was, he would be making a lot of the Americans he despised even more uncomfortable.
The lot was full despite, or perhaps because of, the rain. At this predawn hour the lot was crowded with
