Cross down, p.18
Cross Down, page 18
Deacon’s face is calm. “Maybe it was going to be a warning shot.”
“Was that your plan?”
She swings the M4 over her right shoulder.
“Guess we’ll never know,” she says.
Chapter
83
Three flagpoles rise from a small grassy park in front of the entrance to Union Station in Washington, DC. FBI agent Ned Mahoney shoulders his way through the police lines, holding his shield up, taking in the situation. Police and National Guard officers are holding back the news media and the crowds of onlookers streaming in from nearby streets.
Ned nods to DC Metro Police captain Susan Jones, who is in charge of the scene. She’s wearing a bullet-resistant vest over her uniform, and Ned wishes now he’d brought his own vest, which is still secure back in his government-issue black Impala, along with a spare.
Ned says, “Word I’ve got is that there’s a suicide bomber in there.”
“That’s right,” she replies, eyes flickering around the line of police officers and National Guardsmen, evaluating their positions and placements. “Happened entirely by accident about thirty minutes ago, during the morning rush. Some clown from Bethesda who works in the Agriculture Department came through, bumped into her—”
“A woman?” Ned interrupts. “For real? That’s damn rare.”
In a glum voice, Susan says, “Yeah, that’s what all the training says, right? Anyway, a guy bumps into her, dumps his Starbucks Venti Caramel Apple Frappuccino or whatever on her coat, apologizes, and tries to mop up the mess. Her coat opens up, and there it is, a vest with ball bearings and wires, and he shits himself and starts screaming.”
“It didn’t go off?”
“Nope,” the captain says. “Right now, the concourse is empty except for a couple of my guys with shields, and we’re waiting for the hostage negotiator to show up. At the moment, the would-be suicide bomber is standing under the barrel-vaulted arches, sobbing.”
“Any demands?”
“Not a one,” she says.
Ned looks over at the crowds, tries to remember the last time he had a good night’s sleep or a good scrap of information that might help him find out just what in hell’s been going on during the last few months. “I’m going in,” he says. “Let your people know so they don’t freak when a new face shows up.”
“Ned,” the captain says, “there’s no way I’m letting you in there. Wait for the hostage negotiator to get here.”
“Not enough time, and you know it, Susan,” he says. “And there’s also not enough time to do the turf dance. This is a terrorist incident and it belongs to me. I’m going in.”
“If she pulls the trigger, you and everyone in there will get a bellyful of steel ball bearings.”
Ned says, “So if she pulls the trigger, I better duck, right?”
Susan swears, starts undoing the Velcro straps of her bullet-resistant vest. “All right, take this,” she says, then yells to one of the officers, “You! Give this man your shield.”
Ned puts on the police captain’s bullet-resistant vest and takes the heavy Plexiglas shield, POLICE centered on a black strip across the middle of it, from an officer.
Susan says, “Good luck, if that means anything.”
“I’ll take it,” Ned says.
In the main hall of Union Station, his footsteps clatter loudly in the nearly empty space littered with dropped newspapers, briefcases, purses, and spilled coffee. A disheveled-looking woman is standing in the center of the large hall; pretty arched columns swoop overhead, and hexagon-shaped lights glow softly. One of the five DC police officers taking cover behind ticket counters loudly whispers something unintelligible into the silence, but Ned ignores him.
He slowly walks toward the woman, his empty left hand raised, holding the riot shield in his right hand. “Ma’am,” Ned says, “I’d like to help you, honest. What’s your name? Where are you from?”
She’s a well-dressed, well-made-up blond woman in her mid- to late fifties wearing black slacks and a light yellow down jacket. The jacket is open, revealing a vest with wired and tubular charges and clear plastic bags filled with small metal ball bearings.
She looks like she’s been crying.
“Ma’am,” Ned says, “can I help?”
In a frustrated voice, she says, “It didn’t work, it didn’t work!”
She moves her arm, and Ned freezes, seeing the triggering device in her right hand. “Hey, ma’am, drop what you’re holding,” Ned calls out. “Please!”
Her thumb presses down. “It still doesn’t work!”
Ned yells louder, “Lady, drop it!”
Another press of the thumb. “It was supposed to work!”
“Ma’am, please—”
When she presses down a third time, it works.
Chapter
84
It’s night again when Deacon and I take shelter in another village, this one called Ab Doi. After Bibi ran off, we stayed just long enough to find out from a young boy who knew a smattering of English that the place’s name was Numay and that it had never been attacked, not ever. When Deacon asked if he knew of a nearby village destroyed two years ago, he shook his head, left, and came back with two unopened plastic bottles of water.
I told Deacon we should travel west because that’s where Bastinelli had seen the explosions, and surprisingly enough, she agreed. Now we’re huddled up in a small, smelly stone building that might once have been used to store manure. This village is as unscathed as the first, and thanks to the Afghan custom of pashtunwali, we are fed, given shelter, and treated as guests.
Well, it’s not much of a shelter, with most of the roof gone, but at least the walls are cutting the wind. Deacon and I have crawled into our respective sleeping bags and we’re huddling together to stay warm. The stars overhead are very bright indeed.
I doze off but wake up a few minutes later. Deacon is shivering hard next to me. “Elizabeth?” I say.
“Yeah. Who else did you think would be here?”
“Hold on.” I unzip my bag and, with the light from a headlamp, manage to get her bag zipped to mine so we’re sharing one covering. I pull a dusty carpet over us and say, “Roll over.”
She does, and I cuddle her from behind, rubbing her arms, pressing my body against hers. “Shhh,” I say. “Just hold on. We’ll get you warmed right up.”
“I sure as hell hope so,” she whispers back.
We wait. My feet and lower legs are dangling out in the open. I’m sure my breath is on the back of her neck, but she doesn’t complain. She whispers, “First time we’ve had a break since we got together back in Vermont.”
“Sounds about right.”
She pauses, then says, “You married, John?”
“I was once. To Billie. We have a daughter, Willow. Billie died a while back.”
“God, I’m sorry I asked,” she says.
“No, it’s all right,” I say. “It’s good to say her name, to remember her. I don’t mind talking about her, and Willow is like having a version of Billie still in my life.” Out there somewhere, a baby cries. “You? Married?”
She says, “Once. Divorced. No kids.”
“Why the divorce?” I ask.
“Our schedules and work life never meshed,” she says in the near darkness. “Pretty soon we were like roommates, just two people sharing a house and not much else, and eventually I figured I could save money by leaving him and getting a smaller place.”
The spasms of her shivering slow down and stop, but I keep on holding her tight, and her hair tickles my nose, and I move and she moves and now we’re kissing.
That sweetness goes on and seems to warm us both up, but then I say, “Elizabeth, we should stop this.”
“Why?” she asks, her voice amused. “Too dedicated to the mission?”
“No,” I say. “I want to put this on pause and then pick up where we left off in a few days. In a place with clean water, clean sheets, electricity, and room service.”
She kisses me one more time. “Detective Sampson, you got yourself a deal.”
When the cold rays of sunshine start coming through the open roof, we both get up, arrange our gear, and step outside. We don’t talk about last night, but with all that’s been going on this past week, it’s an unspoiled sweet memory I want to cherish.
Outside, about a dozen villagers have gathered, and my hand goes to my holstered Glock.
I don’t like crowds.
An older man emerges from a small building; he’s wearing tan cotton slacks, heavy boots, and a white collarless shirt with a sheepskin vest. His long beard is white and neatly trimmed, and what I can see of his hair is also white. That he’s unarmed is unusual in this part of the world, and the men in the crowd—no women, of course—watch him with respect and affection.
He comes closer, smiles at Deacon, then looks at me.
I take a wild guess.
I say, “Nice to make your acquaintance, Gul Hazara.”
Chapter
85
FBI agent Ned Mahoney opens his eyes; his ears are ringing. He sits up, sees the Plexiglas shield shattered on the tile floor.
His left foot is warm.
He glances down, sees his pants legs have been shredded, and there’s blood just above his left ankle.
Cops and EMTs are racing in, and there’s the smell of smoke and gunpowder, and despite his ringing ears, he hears someone yell, “She’s alive! No shit, she’s still alive!”
Ned struggles to stand. When he puts weight on his injured foot, he has to bite his lip to keep from crying out. It hurts like hell and he knows it’s only going to get worse, but there’s no time to waste. He limps toward the crumpled figure on the floor as the EMTs arrive. A cop says, “Looks like her vest didn’t fully go off, but man, she took a hit.”
Ned pushes through the growing knot of EMTs and cops. The woman is flat on her back, her abdomen torn and bloody, her slacks and coat torn to shreds. Her eyes are open and so is her mouth, and Ned kneels down next to her. The woman’s face is going gray.
Ned yells, “Who sent you here? Who are you? Why are you here?”
Her eyes are unfocused and he shakes her shoulder. An EMT says, “Jesus, man, leave her be,” but he ignores him and yells again, “Who sent you here?”
The woman finally looks at Ned and smiles, blood coming out of her mouth.
“America did…”
Her eyes close.
Twenty minutes later, his lower shin wrapped with a temporary bandage, Ned is in the front seat of a DC Metro Police cruiser with its engine running. Behind the wheel is Captain Susan Jones, the woman who earlier donated her bullet-resistant vest to him. She looks both exhausted and angry when she says to Ned, “You’re one lucky bastard.”
“Lucky, yes,” Ned answers, trying to ignore the red-hot throbbing of his left shin. “As to the noun you used, I’m honestly not. I can show you the proof when this is over.”
She says, “If this is ever over, you mean.” Susan sighs. “Yeah, let’s talk about luck. We were lucky that crazy bitch was discovered before she could try to set off that suicide vest. And lucky again that it malfunctioned and wounded only a few bystanders. Including one bystander that shouldn’t have been there, meaning you. How are you feeling?”
“Outstanding,” Ned says. “Uh-oh, we got visitors. Winny is here.”
Standing by a flagpole and talking to two police sergeants is a tall and determined-looking Black woman in a black wool coat. Three male aides in fine suits are standing near her.
Susan says, “The Honorable Winifred Crocker, mayor of Washington, DC? How come you’re on a first-name basis with her?”
Ned says, “We were in the same FBI Academy class, and both of us were at the Boston field office before she entered DC politics. Fair warning, it looks like she’s on her way over.”
“Then let’s get to work,” Jones says. “Before she starts knocking on my door.”
In her left hand she holds the blood-smeared Ohio driver’s license of Lucille Palmer, the now-deceased suicide bomber. In her right hand is her cell phone, and she punches in the phone number for Walter Palmer, Lucille’s husband.
Ned watches. How many times has he had to do this, call and break the news of a loved one’s death to some father or mother, husband or wife, shattering them and bringing down an avalanche of grief?
The phone rings and rings and rings. Answer, damn it, answer, he thinks.
Mayor Crocker is quickly walking over to the cruiser.
“Hello?” comes a male voice from Susan’s phone.
“Good morning,” Susan says in a brisk professional voice. “Is Walter Palmer there?”
“Speaking,” he says.
“This is Captain Susan Jones of the DC Metro Police. Mr. Palmer, is your wife Lucille Palmer?”
“Yes, yes, she is. What’s this about?”
“I’m afraid—”
Walter interrupts. “Wait, what? DC? The District of Columbia? My wife isn’t in DC.”
“Where is she, then?”
His voice rises. “Orlando! In Florida! At a Mary Kay convention.”
Susan glances at Ned, and Ned nods. He’s got a lot on his plate. He has to tell John what he found out about Elizabeth Deacon, prep for the next status meeting, and send a team of FBI agents to the home of Walter and his late wife to look for clues as to why a middle-class suburban mom would come to the District and strap on a suicide vest.
Oh, yeah, and he has to get his left shin looked at before it bleeds through the bandages.
The Metro Police captain takes a breath. “Mr. Palmer, I’m afraid I have some very bad news for you.”
Chapter
86
Breakfast is relatively luxurious because we’re in the home of the local tribal leader, Gul Hazara. We gather in one big room with plenty of soft carpets under our feet, and there are large platters of flatbread, cottage cheese, tomatoes, cucumbers, boiled eggs, sweet biscuits, and lots of tea.
Some of the tribesmen in the crowded room are staring at my skin, others are staring at Elizabeth, and a couple look from one of us to the other like spectators at a tennis match.
At one point, Gul excuses himself from this room, and in a quiet voice, Deacon asks, “How did you know that was Gul Hazara?”
“You should know my methods, Watson,” I say, eating a piece of flatbread with some kind of jam spread on it. “Our traitorous guide Bibi said Gul Hazara controlled this area, and when I first saw him, he was surrounded by guards and followers. Mostly, though, it was because he recognized you on sight. I figured he had to be the local leader you mentioned earlier, the one who didn’t show up for that meeting.”
“Good call,” she replies, sipping a cup of tea.
I say, “Who is this guy, then, that you’d risk your ass to sneak into Afghanistan at least five times to meet with him?”
There’s the briefest of pauses, and I know her intelligence-officer mind is working hard, deciding how much to reveal to me.
“We’re hoping that two or three years down the road, when the Taliban are defeated, Gul Hazara will be the new president of Afghanistan.”
I say, “Defeated? For the second time? Man, you Company folks do love to dream.”
She doesn’t answer. Gul Hazara comes back in, squats down, and speaks rapidly in Tajik. All the guests get up and slowly walk out, most of them giving us one more look before departing.
He folds his hands in his lap and says, “Well, Miss Elizabeth, Mr. John. What brings you here?”
Deacon says, “Thank you for your hospitality, your graciousness, and this marvelous meal. We are in your debt.”
He says, “It is hard sometimes to keep track of those debts owed to you.”
Deacon reaches into her rucksack and pulls out a small black zippered bag. She places it on the carpet and says, “You know I always settle my debts, Gul Hazara.”
He doesn’t take the bag, but a hint of a smile appears on his bearded face. “So you do. And what other debt do you intend to incur today?”
“There is a village nearby that was bombed and destroyed two years ago,” she says. “My comrade and I need to visit it.”
Within seconds, Gul Hazara transforms from confident leader to a shrinking man clutching at worry beads. “Why?”
“We need to see it so we can learn who did it. And perhaps why.”
He shakes his head. “It’s dangerous for you two to be here, you know. You, an armed woman, and your friend, a very tall African-looking man. If you value your life, you should return to the border immediately.” He puts a hand on his chest. “I will provide safe escort.”
I say, “With all due respect, sir, we need to get there.”
“Again I ask: Why?”
I say, “There are disturbances and bloodshed in our country, and we have been told that what happened in that village is somehow connected to those events.”
Silence in the room.
Deacon asks, “Were you here when it happened?”
He looks down for a moment. “Yes. The village, it was called Mir Kas. One night, the bombs and rockets came. Most of us have experienced some form of attack or bombing from the air. A few explosions, a few buildings destroyed, some killed or wounded, and then it’s over. But not poor Mir Kas.”
He’s starting to reveal things, and Deacon does not press him, just lets him tell his story.
“For long hours, the village was bombed from one end to the other. Machine-gun fire from the air cut down everyone who tried to run. Everyone—the old, the infirm, the children. A few managed to escape, and we helped them, and then they kept running, as if they and their village were cursed.”
I say, “We’d still like to see it.”
“There’s nothing there but bones and rubble.”
“That doesn’t matter,” Deacon says. “We believe it’s connected to the terrorist attacks in our nation.”
