Thorn set his jaw, fighting memories that were still painful. “What about Flight 352?”
Helen’s gaze softened. She had her own nightmare visions of that terrible day and night by the Potomac. “The lab says the solid-rocket exhaust residues we picked up on the shore near Georgetown probably came from Russian-designed missiles either SA-7s or the newer SA-16s. Our divers and the Park Police are still dragging the river for any bits and pieces we could use to confirm that.”
“Wonderful,” Thorn said softly. There were so many SA7s and SA-16s piled up in military and terrorist arsenals around the world that tracing the weapons used for this particular attack would be almost impossible.
“What about on your end, Peter? Have you and the Maestro zeroed in on any of our guys who might have gone bad?” Helen asked.
“Only a handful.” Thorn spread his hands in a gesture of negation.
“And none I’d lay any money on. One’s in prison, so he’s out. Another’s overseas working as a bodyguard for a Saudi prince. I understand most of the others had airtight alibis when your people checked them out. Anyway, none of them showed any signs of having the kind of connections or money they’d have to have to jump all over the country without getting caught.”
Suddenly, he shook his head. “I just don’t buy this, Helen. I could swallow the Bureau not spotting one or two small, sophisticated domestic terrorist groups… but three or four or five? Where the hell are all these bastards coming from?”
“Believe me, Peter, we’ve all been asking the same question,” Helen said quietly. She lowered her eyes to the pile of reports and photos on her desk. “Our intelligence people honestly thought they had a handle on every group likely to cause trouble. But it’s a big country out there and the evidence is pretty clear that we screwed it up somehow. Maybe we counted too much on these people slotting neatly into our psychological profiles. Or we relied too heavily on informants who weren’t tracking the right organisations.”
She looked up again. “All I know is that we’re getting hammered by terrorists of all stripes using different techniques and weapons to hit different types of targets in different parts of the country. And the only thing I can see that they’ve got in common is that they’re damned good at what they do.”
Thorn grimaced. “True.” Every separate attack showed clear signs of careful advance planning and attention to detail. That was one of the factors that had first led him to believe someone with military training might be involved. Something else about the terrorist strikes tugged at his memory. Something about the communiques claiming responsibility…
Helens phone buzzed, breaking his train of thought. “Special Agent Gray here.”
Thorn sat still while she listened to someone on the other end.
“Right. I’ll be there.” Helen hung up. She looked sadly at him. “I have to go, Peter. Flynn’s called a meeting in five minutes to go over the preliminary reports on the monorail bombing.”
“Is he still giving you grief about sharing information with me?” Thorn asked seriously.
“Not much.” One side of Helen’s mouth twitched upward for an instant.
“Mike Flynn’s got a few too many other things to worry about right now. So I think he’s pretty well decided to turn a blind eye on us at least as long as he doesn’t trip over you every time he turns around.”
Thorn forced some humor into his own voice. “Got it. I’ll practice tiptoeing on eggshells.” He stood up. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow?” he asked.
She nodded and came around the desk to kiss him goodbye. “Tomorrow.”
Thorn was on the Metro before he remembered what it was that had been bothering him about the terrorist communiques. Every one of them had been written or spoken in precise, textbook-perfect English. At first he’d thought that was because the terrorists wanted to avoid giving the FBI’s language analysts any regional accents or speech patterns that could be used to identify them later. But what if there was another reason? A simpler reason? Did all the statements sound like textbook English precisely because they were taken out of a textbook?
He thought hard about that all the way back to the Pentagon.
NBC had built a special set in its New York broadcast studios as a backdrop for its daily reports on the terrorist campaigns convulsing the nation. A giant electronic map of the United States framed the news desk and NBC’s top anchorman. Pulsing red lights scattered across the map marked areas officially confirmed by the FBI as terror attacks. A large monitor showed the grim, determined face of Senator Stephen Reiser, the Senate majority leader. He was being interviewed by satellite linkup with the Capitol Hill television studio.
“If I understand you correctly, Senator, you believe that the administration’s response to this wave of terrorism has been too weak and too hesitant. Is that right?”
Reiser nodded flatly. “That’s right, Tony.” He frowned. “For God’s sake, we know the kinds of people responsible for these atrocities. I see no reason on earth to keep tiptoeing around the way we’ve been doing. A little police or FBI raid here or there isn’t going to stop this thing.”
“What exactly are you proposing?” the interviewer asked curiously. Reiser was a rare politician one noted for his blunt talk and acid wit.
The senator did not disappoint him.
“A knockout blow. Something that would stop these terrorists in their tracks. I think the President should get up off his duff and declare a nationwide state of emergency. We should slap every known member of these extremist groups into preventive detention until we can sort out the guilty from the innocent. And if the police and FBI are too damned shorthanded, I think we should deploy the Army and Marines to do the job!”
“Wouldn’t the ACLU and other civil rights organisations object to ” the interviewer began.
“The hell with the ACLU!” Reiser interrupted sharply. “We’re at war, whether those idiots know it or not.”
Officer Carlos Esparo swore softly as the scene in his binoculars swam into sharper focus. He and his partner were stationed seven blocks from the improvised roadblock thrown up across a major street leading into one of L.A.‘s poorest and most dangerous neighborhoods. The roadblock wasn’t much not yet. Just a few old clunkers parked sideways across the street. But it was manned by punks. By gang members wearing their colors. By armed gang members. Most wore pistols tucked into their pants, and he could see at least one shotgun. The LAPD officer was willing to bet they had automatic weapons too. He’d had too many run-ins with the local street gangs not to respect their firepower.
They were stopping every car and truck headed into South Central. Only those driven by blacks were allowed through the roadblock. The others, those driven by whites, Hispanics, or Asians, were waved back with menacing gestures and shouted insults.
Esparo clicked the button on his radio mike. “No, sir. There’s been no violence. Not yet anyway. But I still think...”
The voice of his watch commander cut him off. “Don’t think, Carlos. The orders come right from the top. You just stay put and observe the situation. Got it? Don’t intervene unless they start getting out of hand. And even then, you check with me first. Is that clear?”
Esparo gritted his teeth. “Clear, sir.” He understood the reasoning behind his orders even if he didn’t like them very much. With racial tensions climbing every day, the LAPD could not risk sparking another disastrous riot. Even his request for a SWAT sniper team on standby had been refused. They were too busy guarding vulnerable installations and city officials.
The coils of razor wire strung across the quiet, suburban street west of Chicago seemed utterly out of place. So did the hunting rifles slung over the shoulders of the well-dressed, mostly middle-aged men clustered around a tiny portable heater. Their breath steamed in the freezing late autumn air and they seemed acutely uncomfortable. But they also looked angry and utterly fixed in purpose.
Against police advice, Oak Brook’s various Neighborhood Watch groups had decided to arm themselves against what they saw as a rising tide of terrorism and civil strife. Their members, mostly wealthy lawyers, doctors, and stockbrokers, were taking turns away from work to patrol the streets and to man checkpoints at key locations. All of them were determined to make sure that no “undesirables” bent on murder, rape, or pillage menaced their homes or families.
