The Silent Man

down, and eighteen soldiers stood beside them, checking their gear, along with about fifteen state troopers. Four Suburbans, two marked and two unmarked, and two unmarked Crown Vics waited for them, lights on and engines running.

As the fourth Black Hawk landed, the Deltas began to huddle around a tall man who, unusually for a Special Operations officer, wore a standard camouflage uniform, a lieutenant colonel’s oak leaves on his shoulderboards, and Giese on his name tag. As Wells joined the huddle, Giese looked at him and nodded. Wells nodded back, all the introduction he needed, and all he would get. Giese spread a four-foot-square satellite photo of the Repard farm on the hood of one of the Suburbans. The property had two buildings, the main house and a stable behind it. The G6 was clearly visible, parked in front of the main house, along with a second vehicle, a Ford Expedition.

“We’re guessing that whatever they have is in the back building. But it could be in the basement of the main house or even hidden somewhere else on the property,” Giese said. “We put up a sniffer”—a plane with equipment that could detect radioactive particles—“but it didn’t find anything. So we really don’t know.

“C Company’s going in first. We’ll leave the Black Hawks here, drive to the perimeter of the property and move along the driveway on foot. The state police have blocked the road that leads to the farm where it runs across Route 417. The police are giving us a ride, but they’re not going in. Meanwhile, B Company will ride in and land between the house and the stable. But only after C has hit the buildings. I don’t want these guys to know we’re coming.”

Giese handed out wallet-sized copies of the Newark immigration photographs. “Our primary targets. Our ROE”—rules of engagement—“say you can shoot on sight, no warning. We don’t know what they have, whether it’s a bomb or just material. But I want you to assume the worst. Assume they have a megaton bomb and they can trigger it remotely. And act accordingly. Any questions?”

“Whose property is it, sir?”

“According to the records, it belongs to a surgeon from Egypt. He bought it a couple of years ago and we can assume he’s part of whatever they’re doing. We’re still getting a photograph of him, but it doesn’t matter what he looks like. Once we cross that perimeter, everyone you see is subject to the ROE. Women and children included.”

“Children, sir?”

“If a child has the detonator, then he’s more dangerous than any adult. Other questions?”

Silence.

“All right. I’m going to ride lead. We don’t have time for any fancy speeches, and I don’t have to tell you what this means. So I won’t. But I would like to offer a quick prayer. If you want to join, huddle up and bow your heads and close your eyes.”

Every man did. Including Wells.

“Dear God, please help us overcome the enemy we face and keep our country safe from this most dangerous weapon. And please return us this night to our families and homes. Amen.”

“Amen,” twenty-three voices said in return.

“Saddle up.”

THE TROOPERS DROVE FAST, lights flashing but no sirens. Wells and Gaffan sat in the rear Crown Vic.

“Sergeant.”

“Mr. Wells.”

“What did I tell you about calling me mister? Or sir? I wish I’d known you were in D.C. We could have had a beer.”

“I just got moved a couple months ago, sir. I mean John.”

“Who’d you piss off to wind up on this detail?”

Gaffan laughed. “I requested it. My wife was joking about divorcing me if she didn’t start seeing me more, and after a while it didn’t sound like she was joking. Anyway, I was tired of Afghanistan. Chasing those Talibs around the caves. It never ends, does it?”

“It does for some. When we get through this, we’re going out for a drink. And this time, I want you to hold me to it.”

“I’ll do that. Think they have a bomb?”

Wells shook his head. No point in guessing.

The convoy turned off 86 and onto 15. Then onto 417, and five minutes after that through a roadblock and left onto a nameless narrow road into the woods. A minute later, they pulled up outside the driveway, a rutted asphalt track that disappeared through thick woods over a low rise. A gray wooden mailbox beside the road announced “Repard” in faint black letters.

The Suburbans and Crown Vics pulled over and the soldiers threw open the doors and stepped onto the road. When all twelve men were out, the vehicles rolled away. The only sound was the trickle of snow-melt dripping off branches. Without a word, the Deltas dropped the safeties on their M-16s and M-4s, checked the slides on their pistols, adjusted their Kevlar and bulletproof vests. They nodded to each other and lined up in pairs by the side of the driveway. Then Giese threw two fingers forward, and they began to run.

At the top of the rise, they threw themselves down. The house was two hundred yards down the driveway, the Pontiac and Ford parked in front. The lights were out and Wells saw no signs of motion inside. Now they had to choose. They could run up the driveway, moving quickly but visible to anyone inside the house. Or they could spread into the woods, a slower and noisier but better hidden route. After a few seconds, Giese pointed his fingertips down the path. Two by two, the commandos ran toward the house. The first six men ran around it and toward the stable in back. The next four set up on the porch with a battering ram, preparing to break open the front door. Wells and Gaffan ran to the back of the house.

The back door was unlocked. Wells slung it open and followed Gaffan into the kitchen. Three plates sat on the table, along with a dish of cucumber slices, a carton of orange juice, and a basket of pitas. Wells pulled open a cheap wooden door that looked like it led to the basement. Bingo. Gaffan took the stairs two at a time and Wells followed.

In the basement, three clean whiteboards, a broken Ping-Pong table, three cans of Coke. No bomb, no terrorists hiding in corners. They ran back up the stairs and into the kitchen, where the other two teams waited. The other soldiers shook their heads. The house was clear. The stable, too, apparently. They hadn’t heard any shots or explosions or calls for help. These men, whoever they were, had eluded them again.

Then Gaffan’s radio buzzed. “The stable,” he said.

GIESE POKED with his foot at the brutalized corpse on the floor of the stable. “Seems they had a falling- out,” he said.

“We know which one this is?” Wells said.

Giese shook his head. “You find anything?”

“The house is empty but there’s food in the kitchen,” Wells said. “Looks like they ate breakfast and left. It’s”—Wells looked at his watch—“one-thirty now. Say they left between seven and ten.”

“In six hours, they could get three hundred, four hundred miles,” Giese said. “They could be in New York already, or Washington. Halfway to Chicago.”

“Unless we shut down the whole eastern half of the country, we can’t freeze them. And if we do, they’ll know where they stand and they’ll blow this thing wherever they are.”

“That’s a White House decision,” Giese said. “But in a couple hours, they’re going to have to cancel the State of the Union and then the game’s going to be up anyway. And for all we know, word’s leaking already. Too many people have bits of it.” He sighed and reached for his phone. “I have to call in. They’ll probably bring us back to Andrews, let the Rangers and the state cops take over here. You going to ride with us?”

Wells shook his head. He wanted to look around the house and the stable, see if he could connect anything he saw with Bernard Kygeli. There was something he wasn’t remembering. Maybe the house would spark it.

“Mind leaving me Gaffan?” he said. “I know him from Afghanistan.”

Giese tilted his head. “Guess we’ll make do with ten. Here’s my cell.” He passed on the number. “You think of anything, let me know. Time’s short.”

“Indeed.”