that anyone in his position would have done the same thing, that there were still Good Samaritans left in this world. That’s all there was to it.
And, alas, the smallmouth bass would have to wait.
Joe Dominguez had been examined by the doctor, his arm stitched up, and then he’d been questioned by the local Tucson police and by two guys from the FBI, who must have asked him one thousand questions in just one hour.
His parents came down to the hospital, and after he was released, two cops said they would “help” get him back to his parents’ car. He didn’t understand what that meant until the automatic doors opened and they went outside—
Into a crowd of reporters, probably ten or fifteen of them, with cameramen and lights — and the sight of those cameras balanced on the shoulders of those men gave Dominguez a flashback to the moment, even as digital cameras began to flash. A reporter he recognized from the local news thrust her microphone into his face and said, “Joe, we know you were a hero out there, taking down the terrorists. Can you tell us what happened?”
“Uh, I wish I could, but they told me not to say anything right now.”
“But it’s true that you ran over the guys with your truck, then shot one of them in the head, right? We’ve talked to other witnesses who’ve told us that.”
Dominguez looked back at his father, who shook his head vigorously:
“Uh, I can’t say anything. But if they tell me that I can, then, you know, hey, I’ll tell you all about it.”
“What does it feel like to be a hero?” shouted another reporter.
Before he could respond, the police forced back the reporters and steered Joe and his parents through the breach. By the time they reached his father’s battered white pickup truck, he was exhausted.
And his father was crying.
“Dad, what’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” his father said, glancing away, embarrassed. “I’m just so proud of you.”
About two and a half hours later, Moore and Towers were in Los Angeles, talking with the incident commander inside the parking garage.
Another of the CIA’s mobile labs had arrived to assist the FBI’s forensic teams. Moore spoke to the techs, who said they were using the new rapid DNA analysis platform, the same one they’d used on the pendant back in San Diego.
By morning he had his answer: The DNA on the foil wrappers they’d found matched what had been on the pendant.
Photographs of Samad, Talwar, Niazi, and Rahmani had been released to the world. The Agency had been denying any knowledge of exactly how the terrorists had passed into the country, and the talking heads were in their glory, with hundreds of hours of television programming easily filled by their speculation and arguments about better securing America’s borders and how the Department of Homeland Security, despite all the budget increases and measurable improvements, had failed the nation. TSA screeners were more adept at discovering transvestites and breast implants than would-be terrorists — so said the pundits. The comptroller general of the United States, the head of the GAO (Government Accountability Office), was being questioned about a recent performance audit of the DHS in which he stated that the DHS was not making its operations transparent enough for Congress to be sure the department was working effectively, efficiently, and economically, in view of its massive annual budget. The GAO would once again exercise its broad statutory right to the department’s records in an attempt to pinpoint where the failures had taken place. Moore could only hope that public pressure didn’t take the investigation to the CIA, to Calexico, to a border tunnel that had been controlled by the Juarez Cartel and exploited by terrorists, to a man assigned to shut down that cartel.
Once again American flags were being raised over homes throughout America, and those who’d been largely apathetic about their patriotism suddenly found it once more. Cries in Congress for a military response like the one seen after 9/11 got citizens enraged and protesting for an overwhelming response. Thousands rallied on Capitol Hill. Gun sales increased tenfold. Mosques were bombed and looted.
Then, on the seventh day after the terror strike, a victory was reported in the tribal lands of Pakistan: Mullah Omar Rahmani was, according to Moore’s colleagues, dead, killed by a Hellfire missile launched from one of the CIA’s Predator drones. His death was the only good news to reach the American people since the attack. The hunt for the other terrorists was ongoing and thus far unsuccessful, despite thousands of man-hours and tens of thousands of leads.
The President gave a press conference to confirm that the “mastermind” behind the airliner attacks had been killed — and country-music stars were already releasing new songs about how America kicks ass.
Moore hardly celebrated Rahmani’s demise. He had not heard back from Wazir, and the old man’s silence deeply troubled him and robbed the so-called good news of any pleasure. He told Slater and O’Hara that he would travel to Pakistan himself to ID Rahmani’s body; it was something he had to do. At the same time, he would try to reestablish contact with Wazir. He also reminded his bosses that killing Rahmani might have made it impossible to find the others. While he didn’t like it, Moore understood why his request to have the drones stand down had been denied. The American people wanted blood, and the Agency had been under extreme pressure to give it to them. The days of the Colosseum had returned.
Moore had flown into Islamabad and thought he’d first stop at the embassy to surprise Leslie. He’d learned through a mutual friend that she’d been transferred from the embassy in Kabul back to the one in Islamabad, where they’d first met.
He caught her in the parking lot as she was heading out for lunch.
“Oh my God,” she said, then lowered her glasses to stare over the rim. “Am I dreaming?”
“No, I am.”
She shoved him hard in the shoulder. “That’s cheesy, and you, uh, look pretty good. You clean up well. I like the haircut. It reminds me that we should do more to strengthen our bilateral relationship.”
“You mean we should get something straight between us?”
“That’s inappropriate.”
“I’d like to get inappropriate with you.”
She took a deep breath and turned away.
“What?”
“What do you mean ‘What?’ What did you expect? I gave them my two weeks’ notice. I’m leaving at the end of the week, going back to the U.S.”
He threw his hands up, knowing how much she’d put into the career. “Why?”
“Because this isn’t for me anymore. I thought a transfer back to Islamabad would make a difference, but it hasn’t. The only thing that made it fun and exciting was you.”
“No, no, no. You need to slow down. Let’s go over to Club 21 like old times. They still got the best beer in this town.”
“The only beer in this town.”
He moved to her, put his hand beneath her chin. “I owed you a real good-bye — not that awkward, uh, whatever that was on the phone, and that’s why I came back. If this made it worse, then I’m just an idiot, but I didn’t want to leave it like that. I felt terrible.”
“You did?”
He nodded, and two rounds of beers later, he dropped her off at the embassy, and there was a moment where he held her hand, squeezed it tightly, and said, “You’re going to have a great life.”
