and business meeting facility and then leading on across Howard Street into the convention center. Peering through its glass-paneled sides, he could see long streams of people moving in both directions-the ball game and other events had filled the center and caused nearly every room in the hotel to be occupied.
Oh, Allah, our caravan seeks your assistance inflicting the maximum damage, he prayed. We are honored to sacrifice our lives in your path.
Zuhair lowered his gaze from the sky bridge, pressing the earbud of his Bluetooth headset more securely into place with a fingertip, watching a pair of attractive young women cross his path as they approached the hotel entrance. One of them made chance eye contact with him and pointed to the Red Sox emblem on her T-shirt. She smiled a gloating smile and moved on with her friend. He smiled back, feeling the confidence of one who walked freely among his enemies, wrapped in their very skin, unnoticed as he prepared to attack. Perhaps he would kill the woman and her friend.
Yes. That appealed to him.
Following the women, he made his way back into the hotel lobby. They sat, probably to wait for friends or plan what they were going to do for the rest of the day. Zuhair looked around the crowded space, at the support columns. He went there to wait for the call.
Allah, forgive his vanity, but he experienced something of what the Prophet himself must have felt when he sat in his cave, meditating, and the word of God was revealed to him. Zuhair could tell the women exactly what they were going to do today, just minutes from now.
They were going to die.
Julie Harper looked at the diamond-studded Cartier watch her husband had given her for their twenty-fifth anniversary. She touched it, treasuring it, treasuring him, and saw that she had just fifteen minutes before the doors closed and the event officially began.
Julie was backstage, reviewing her welcoming remarks, when her cell phone rang in her clutch bag. The tone, assigned to her husband’s number, was a snippet of “My White Night” from The Music Man, the show they saw on their first date. It was a regional production, nothing spectacular, but they were sobbing and in love by the time Harold hugged Marian at the end of act 2. Julie smiled every time she heard it. Jon knew that, knew how tense she’d be.
“Thanks,” she said, picking up. “I needed that.”
“I figured you would,” he said. “You’ll be great.”
“As long as I don’t trip and the microphone works, I think I’m good.”
“Big turnout?” he asked.
“Fabulous.”
“I saw you had a security alert.”
“Doesn’t the CIA’s deputy director have anything better to do?”
“Puckett received it, sent it on. What’s up?”
“Guy came in with a briefcase, acting strange,” she said. “He’s at the bar, talking on his Bluetooth. Center security is watching him. I had Donna check. He’s with Interglobal Pharmaceuticals, a sales rep.”
“Must be some very special samples he’s got.”
“I guess.” Julie was looking at the man. She saw the head of security, Bill Roche, standing at the other end of the bar, facing him.
“Well, I don’t want to keep you,” Jon said. “I just wanted to say I’m so proud.”
“Thanks. And, Jon? Don’t beat yourself up for being in Washington.”
“Hon, I’m not-”
“I think you are,” she interrupted. “I hear it in your voice.”
He said nothing.
“I’m telling you it’s okay.”
“No, it isn’t,” he admitted. “Tonight’s an important moment in your life. I should be sharing it with you.”
“President Brenneman needed you,” she said. “I don’t-”
She froze as she noticed Michael Lohani’s hand emerge from his pants pocket. He raised a cylindrical object that looked like a pen. And then she saw his eyes turn upward and his mouth form words and the security guard look over…
In the final instant before the explosions, she became conscious of her husband repeating her name over the phone. “Julie? Julie?”
And then the roar swallowed everything.
CHAPTER 3
BALTIMORE, MARYLAND
Ryan Kealey and Allison Dearborn had walked along the brick pier where day-trippers were moving by in noisy clusters. Beyond them came the high, excited voices of children farther down the pier, where they were lined up with their parents for paddleboat rentals. A stranger meekly approached the pair and began hashing out a story about how he’d been separated from his friends the drunken night before and just needed a few more bucks to take the Greyhound back to his place in nearby Owings Mills. Apologizing to the stranger, more for their dismissal of him personally than of his far-fetched story, neither agent felt it necessary to flash their official credentials to further discourage the poorly rehearsed beggar, who was still wearing a noticeably fresh hospital bracelet.
They reached the indoor garage on the corner of Charles and Conway at 5:06, exactly nine minutes before the chain of explosions rocked the convention center.
The attendants had parked Kealey’s Saab 9–3 Aero on the ground level, nosing it against the garage’s outer wall, and he needed only to inform them he wanted something out of the backseat to be waved along.
“Think I’ll freshen up my makeup while I have a chance,” Allison said as they approached the silver convertible. “I want to be at my spiffiest for Julie.”
Kealey got his remote key fob out of his pocket and pressed the button to unlock the doors. She sat in the passenger’s seat and flipped down the visor to use the mirror. He got his jacket and her shoes from the backseat.
“Allison, I still haven’t thanked you.”
“For what?” she asked after applying lipstick. “Dragging you to see my former teacher’s keynote speech at a nursing conference?”
“The Harpers are my friends, too,” Kealey said. “No, what we were talking about earlier. I was in a bad place when we met. You pulled me out of it.”
“A jellyfish isn’t a man, and a man isn’t a jellyfish. Anyway, you did most of the heavy lifting.”
He laughed. “If by that you mean after a couple of weeks I did more than grunt one-word answers to your questions, okay.”
She quickly brushed her hair, frowned, muttered, “Best I can do,” then slipped on her heels.
“You look aces,” he said.
“Yeah, thanks. Two minutes of humidity and I’m the Wicked Witch of the West.” She faced him in the hot, stuffy garage. “That process, emerging from a depressive emotional shutdown and post-traumatic stress, is one of the toughest climbs a patient can face. Tougher than most suicide attempts, who have already accepted their situation and want help. You were in some pretty serious situations in South Africa, with the security of our nation squarely on your shoulders. That’s what we euphemistically call ‘Deep Rubble’ in our business.”
“We have another word for it,” Kealey said.
“I know,” she said, shutting the door. “Those of us in wood-paneled offices try to have a little more class.”
“Whatever you call it, I’ve got a long way to go. But I couldn’t have gotten where I am without you,” he said. “I haven’t said that before, and wanted to.”
They looked at each other a little longer than client-patient propriety should allow. It was Kealey who turned, who locked the doors, who offered her his hand and started back toward the street.
They walked silently up the ramp toward sunlight.
