WASHINGTON, DC
The front desk woke Wilmot at five o’clock. Collier was already busy at his compu thhhhhhhhize="ter.
Wilmot made himself some coffee, then sat down next to Collier and watched as he keyed in a series of commands.
“How long before the heat shuts down?” he asked.
“I was just about to do it,” Collier said. “Do you want to hit the button?”
He knew Collier was trying to win him over after being snubbed last night. Wilmot leaned over and asked, “What do I do?”
Collier pointed at the keyboard and said, “Just hit enter.”
Wilmot studied the screen. NATIONAL HEAT & AIR REMOTE DIAGNOSTIC SYSTEM appeared at the top of the screen. There was a bunch of gibberish code that meant nothing to him. Collier had explained that by remotely uploading a bug script into the air handler’s controller, the fans would fail to come on when the gas next cycled on. With no air moving, the thermocouple in the temp sensor would eventually overheat, shutting off the gas. Then the whole system would shut down, and the Capitol would get very cold.
“All right then,” said Wilmot. “Let’s see if it works.”
“It’ll work,” Collier said. “Trust me.”
Wilmot stabbed the key. Nothing dramatic happened, but he imagined the signals sending their disruptive messages to the main circuit panel, finally putting in motion the plan they had spent so long preparing.
“I’m taking a shower,” Wilmot said and walked toward the bathroom.
He came back out of the bathroom twenty minutes later, combing his wet hair, wearing white coveralls with a yellow patch on the left side of his chest that read DALE. A large printed logo on the back read: NATIONAL HEAT & AIR. WARMING HEARTS AND HEARTHS SINCE 1947. Below that, in tiny letters: A DIVISION OF WILMOT INDUSTRIES.
He sat down on the couch and put his feet up. Collier wore an identical pair of coveralls, with a patch on the chest that said JOHN.
Collier closed the computer and said, “Okay, then. Now we wait for them to call us.”
At 5:33 AM, the phone connected through Collier’s computer rang.
Collier let it ring once, twice, answering on the third ring. “Good morning, National Heat and Air, this is Ralph speaking. How may I help you?”
A voice on the other end said, “Hey, ah, yeah, this is Alfred Teasely, federal facilities manager at the Capitol. We’ve got a problem with the heating system at the Capitol.”
National Heat & Air had bid for and won the contract to service the Capitol. And since Wilmot owned National Heat & Air, it had not been much of a problem for Collier to reroute their emergency phone system so that any calls coming in to the dispatch line from the 202 area code were automatically shunted to his computer.
“Do you have a contract number, sir?” Collier said.
“I’m at the United States Capitol. How many United States Capitols are there?”
“Yes, sir. I just need a contract number so that I can access your account.”
The man groaned. “Hold on.” There was some brief scrabbling around. “Okay. Eight oh one one five dash three.”
“One moment, sir.” Collier clattered randomly on the keys of the computer. “I show that that is a level-three secure facility. May I have your security code?”
“Nine six four dash Alpha Charlie Seven.”
“Excellent. What seems to be the problem, sir?”
“Well, the whole damn HVAC system just locked up. It’s shut down, and we can’t access the controller. I’m just getting a blue screen.”
“Have you installed the three-point-one-point-two update?” Collier was grinning at Wilmot. He loved all this techie mumbo jumbo.
“I’m checking the upgrade history now,” the facilities manager said. “I’m not seeing anything. I’ve got the damn State of the Union address in twelve hours.”
“Normally we update the software over the Internet. But it looks like . . . yes, sir . . . there seems to be something wrong with the broadband connection. What we’ll need to do is dispatch a team to update that software and get you back online.”
“I just need the damn thing to work.”
“Not a problem, sir. We have two technicians on standby. Let me check the schedule . . . Okay, here we go. I’ve got two of our top guys on call. They’ve been precleared. I’ll dispatch them right away.”
“How fast can they get here?”
“Less than thirty minutes.”
“Give me their names.”
“Right. John Collier and Dale Wilmot. You have a great day now.”
Three minutes later Collier and Wilmot were down in the lowest level parking deck, loading the steel cart containing two canisters of hydrogen cyanide into the back of a slightly battered white panel van that read NATIONAL HEAT & AIR on the side. He’d requisitioned it from the National Heat & Air motor pool, with legitimate plates, VIN number, and registration. Collier had seen to it all.
37
TYSONS CORNER, VIRGINIA
Gideon had lost them.
He didn’t have a tracking device, only the small earpiece that fed him the static-filled audio from the radio Tillman had pocketed.
He still didn’t know which house they were going to, or who was the target. He had followed Verhoven cautiously. Now it was five-thirty in the morning, and the greatest danger was that Verhoven would notice him following them. There were few other cars on the road in the suburban streets on which they were driving. By turning off his lights and trying to stay back at least a couple of city blo3emmmmmmmmdiv> cks, he seemed to have managed to escape detection. The price he’d paid was that at the last minute, he’d gotten separated. He knew that Verhoven had stopped, that the operation was a go, and that Tillman couldn’t be more than a few blocks away.
But the neighborhood was a maze of winding roads lined by nearly identical houses. Now he was blundering around, hoping to stumble on the battered old Honda. He knew that by process of elimination, he’d eventually locate the car. But if Tillman ran into trouble before then, there was no guarantee he’d be able to reach him in time to help.
It had been a clear night when the sun went down, but an hour before dawn the moon was covered by low heavy clouds. The temperature hovered around thirty-five, rain threatened, and outside of the few puddles of light beneath the occasional street lamp, the world was painted slightly different shades of black. Gideon’s mood, too, had gone dark. He hadn’t slept in a very long time. And it seemed like they’d gone deeper and deeper into this thing without really learning anything new.
He stopped at a stop sign and let his engine idle. Left or right? He looked in each direction. There were cars parked on the street both ways, none of them clear enough to identify by make and model. He waited for audio from Tillman, but all he could hear was quiet breathing. Dammit, Tillman, why didn’t you say what street you’d turned onto?
Gideon knew the answer, of course. Tillman had mentioned a few street names as they were driving. But he couldn’t exactly carry on a constant monologue of directions without tipping his hand to Verhoven.
Gideon turned left, driving slowly because his headlights were extinguished, and in the darkness he risked running into something. Eventually he hit a dead end without seeing the Honda. He turned around, drove back until he came to the same stop sign, drove down the next street, hit a dead end, no Honda, came back and stopped at the stop sign again.
As he was idling at the stop sign, trying to figure out where he was, he saw headlights tearing rapidly down the street behind him.
He edged forward and eased into a space next to the curb, then slumped down in the car. His heart rate picked up, and he could feel himself sweating, despite the cold. He put his hand on the butt of his Glock. He could see the headlights slowing. He didn’t move.
Suddenly blue lights began flashing.
He sat up and smoothed his coat, covering the pistol on his hip, and rolled down the window, only to see the car speed right past him.
This can’t be good.