in the beds of the trucks and leave the Humvee machine-gun positions empty. The radio link back to headquarters, he decided, had been damaged by the B-52 strike, which meant that he could make on-the-spot commands. His sergeant agreed the radio was inoperative and turned it off. Farooq then had his platoon brew tea and make themselves comfortable along the road for a while, walking around in the open, presenting no threat that could ignite a fight. At the pace the Americans were moving on this violent morning, their operation would not take much longer.
Helping make his choices easier were the two Viper attack helicopters that hung noisily a hundred feet above the roadbed, hemming the vehicles into place as carefully as dogs herd sheep. The stubby wings of the narrow helos held pods of 70 mm rockets, while 20 mm Gatlings were mounted beneath the noses. After what he had already witnessed, Farooq understood that on this day, it would not be a smart thing to get in the way of the Americans.
His sergeant brought him a canteen cup of hot tea, and the lieutenant blew on the liquid a few times before taking a sip, trying with all his might to maintain a sense of dignity. The pilot of one of those Vipers was staring at him through tinted goggles. Farooq smoothly raised his tin cup in a silent salute. The pilot nodded ever so slightly.
THE ARREST OF UNDERSECRETARY William Curtis was assigned to the Federal Bureau of Investigation, with Special Agent David Hunt in charge, and his orders were to carry out the apprehension with utmost care. To ensure radio silence and avoid tipping off the media, the D.C. Metropolitan Police were not alerted, nor were any Virginia law enforcement authorities. The Secret Service detail guarding the vice president’s residence on Observatory Circle was incorporated into the plan, since the FBI would be hitting the nearby BAIA office. As soon as the arrest was accomplished, the FBI was to turn Curtis over to the CIA for some serious questioning.
Hunt put two-agent teams to each corner of the BAIA property, then went up to the front door himself. He rang the bell, and a bewildered security guard opened up, his face dropping when Hunt flashed his creds and two more agents walked past with their guns drawn.
“Is Undersecretary Curtis here?” asked Hunt.
“No, sir,” said the guard, a bald giant who worked for a private security company contracted to provide overnight protection for a number of government buildings. “The place is empty, except for me and the two housekeepers who are asleep upstairs. Want me to call them?”
“No. Give me your weapon with the fingers of your opposite hand, and stay right here with me while the agents check things out. Have you seen Curtis tonight?”
The guard slowly removed his pistol from the holster on his right hip with his left hand as more FBI agents came into the building, also with their guns out. “I haven’t seen him, but I just came on duty at midnight. If you’ll let me look at my logbook over on the desk, I can give you the time when he left.”
“OK,” Hunt said. The guard nodded, happy to be part of whatever was happening, and showed the logbook to Hunt. Curtis had not been in his office since leaving for lunch, and the guard printed out a list of ranking bureau officials, with their addresses and telephone numbers. “Maybe one of them can help,” he said.
Hunt cocked his head to listen to the voices in his earpiece as the reports flooded in from agents clearing every room, and finding nothing. The housekeepers were awakened, came downstairs in their robes, and were questioned. Neither had seen the undersecretary.
Hunt ascended the curving staircase to find Curtis’s office. Everything he saw bespoke quiet elegance, with a distinct sense of Middle Eastern culture in the vases, paintings, ornate tile work, and lush carpets. The office itself was a dazzling display of artifacts that had been presented to the BAIA and Curtis by officials throughout the Arab world. The veteran agent had the feeling he was walking through some special exhibit at the Smithsonian, or a bazaar in Istanbul. Rubies and emeralds, intricate gold work, and shining silver winked beneath small spotlights, as if the objects knew something that he did not. A big picture window opened out on the darkened lawn.
Dave Hunt was suddenly tense and nervous. It was just too perfect. This was no soft diplomat they were after, and if Curtis was in the wind, then maybe he had left something behind to delay his pursuers. Something else was in play.
“Everybody stop in place. Don’t make another move,” he ordered on his radio. “Get the civilians out of here, then rendezvous back at the rally point. Touch nothing. Retrace your footsteps. Watch for possible booby traps.”
Just before he could repeat the order for the agents who had entered Curtis’s empty home, one of them turned off a dripping faucet in the kitchen. That closed the circuit for a dynamite bomb hidden in a wall of the foyer where several agents had gathered. The following explosion blew apart much of the ground floor, and the rest of the town house collapsed in a fireball.
THE VIPERS HAD GIVEN up watching the idle convoy, settled down on the bridge, and shut off their engines. Lieutenant Farooq thought that was wise; no use wasting petrol, dangling in the sky watching him do nothing but drink tea. The only thing bothering him was whether the busy Americans were going to leave any witnesses, but he reasoned that if they had wanted him dead, he would already be dead. They probably wanted him to report exactly what had happened, and he would.
“Sergeant? Are the radios working yet?” Play the game.
“No, sir. A lot of static.” The sergeant pointed to the sky. “Probably one of their electronic warfare planes is up there, jamming everything.”
Farooq shielded his eyes and looked up the road. He threw out the remains of his cup and climbed from the Humvee. “We have company coming, Sergeant. Form the men in ranks. No visible weapons,” he ordered, straightening his uniform.
A little blue golf cart carrying two men in camouflage uniforms with protective vests and helmets was humming toward them from the bridge, an enlisted man driving an officer. Farooq’s men were in formation by the time the cart pulled to a halt and the passenger got out. “Captain Richard Mendoza, U.S. Marines,” the man said.
Lieutenant Farooq saluted and introduced himself.
The salute was returned. “Well, Lieutenant, I’m paying a courtesy visit to thank you for not interfering with our work today.”
“Those were not my orders, Captain. Observe and report only.”
Mendoza knew that was a lie. The Pakistani officer had made the smart move to stay out of the way when he discovered he was so outmatched. No use for either one trying to keep secrets at this point. “We’re about done down there. I want to advise you that when we depart, it would be best for you to wait right here, or even pull back. We’re going to blow that bridge apart. My engineers estimated how much explosive would be needed, then doubled that amount. It would be a great risk to try to defuse any of it, because the clock is already ticking.”
“I understand, sir. Thank you for coming up.”
“Fine-looking troops you have here, Lieutenant. I would hate to have anyone needlessly injured at this point. Good luck to you.”
“And to you, sir.” Salutes were exchanged again, and Mendoza climbed back into the cart, which began the trip back to the landing zone. The Vipers were already winding up their engines and lifting off to make room for the Ospreys to retrieve the Marines. It appeared that the entire force was out of the tunnels and leaving. Farooq watched the departing captain, sorely tempted to grab a rifle and blow him to pieces.
As if hearing the thought, the cart stopped, turned, and came back. This time, Mendoza did not get out but just called to him. “Lieutenant, I forgot to tell you; two cruise missiles are on the way, one targeted on each of the support towers. That’ll be the end of it.” He cheerfully waved, and the cart buzzed away.
KYLE SWANSON WAS BACK in front of General Middleton’s office window again, relaxed, watching the tourists. He asked, “We ready to go after Charlie Brown now?”
“No. You just got back, and things are in an uproar over at the White House,” the general replied, leafing through a stack of colorful brochures. “This isn’t the time to drop another Green Light request on them.”
