The AIC grabbed a UHF radio from one of his men. It was already set to Channel 4, their dedicated maritime link. “Storey to Coast Guard cutter Alder, Storey to Alder. I need immediate escort for Boater at LZ number 3. Do you copy?”
Coming back a split second later: “Storey, this is Alder. Roger that, we’re two minutes out, over.”
“Two fuckin’ minutes,” Storey mumbled. “Unbelievable.” He put in a second hurried call for transport at the designated landing zone, which was on the southern tip of the East Potomac Golf Club, as well as asking for additional helicopter support, never breaking stride as he pulled the president toward a turbocharged motorboat manned by USSS personnel less than 50 feet away. Behind them, the chaos continued to build as some of the reporters, finally realizing that they might actually be in danger themselves, began to trample each other in their rush to get away from the waterfront.
The DS agents for the French and Italian delegations, unaware of the specific threat, bundled their respective principals into armor-plated limousines and screamed at the drivers to move. The heavy vehicles pulled away from the curb at a surprising rate of speed, minus motorcycle outriders, following Maine onto 12th Street, and then heading north toward Pennsylvania Avenue and the safety of the White House.
Ryan was amazed when he reached the van and it was still intact.
He didn’t know where Vanderveen was, but knew the man was definitely somewhere in the area, and had to be watching him at that very moment. He arrived at a dead sprint, pulling up short and slamming his left elbow into the glass on the passenger side.
A wave of pain shot up his arm, but the safety glass gave way immediately. Another three judicious blows pushed the crumpled sheet of glass onto the passenger seat. He was reaching to unlock the door from the inside when a voice yelled, “HOLD IT!”
He whipped his head around to see a young police officer pointing a heavy black pistol at his chest. The adrenaline coursing through his body, Ryan’s mind took in the scene at the speed of light: Metro PD uniform, two chevrons on the sleeve, young kid, scared eyes, and shaky hands on the gun. It all combined to give him a very bad feeling.
“DROP THE GUN!” the officer screamed.
“I’m a Federal officer,” Ryan snarled. “I have to get into this vehicle right—”
“SHUT UP! DROP IT!”
“Ah, fuck. Fuck!” Ryan could see he wasn’t going to win, and he was out of time. “Okay, I’m dropping it. Don’t shoot me, for Christ’s sake.” His right hand left the gun on top of the shattered pane of glass, and slowly, ever so slowly, he pulled his hands out of the interior and held them out by his sides. “Listen to me—”
The policeman was coming down a little bit now. “Keep your hands where I can see them! Turn around and—”
“Shut up! You listen to me. I’m a Federal officer. The person who owns this van is the same man who killed Senator Levy and blew up the Kennedy-Warren.” Ryan watched a look of disbelief spread over the young man’s face. “There is a bomb in this vehicle. I’m stepping back . . . Take the gun off the passenger seat and let me get in there, okay? I need to get in there.”
“I saw him . . .”
Ryan latched on to it, talking fast: “Black hair, brown eyes? About my height, heavy?” The officer nodded, the confusion spreading to his eyes. “He’s a terrorist, and there is a bomb in this van. Take the gun, man. Take the fucking gun.”
More wavering. Without taking his gaze or his weapon off the man standing before him, Jared Howson reached in through the door frame and lifted the Beretta off the seat.
Will Vanderveen was absorbed by the live footage on MSNBC. He had known, or felt, rather, that something was wrong when the conference was still going on ten minutes after it was scheduled to end.
Although it didn’t seem like much to get excited about, Vanderveen knew that every second of the president’s schedule was accounted for by the agents comprising his protective detail, and the unusual length of the Q&A session following the return of the Sequoia was definitely out of the ordinary. Then, in that shocking moment when the president had been grabbed from behind by one of his agents and dragged away from the podium, his single violent expletive could have been clearly heard by the guests in the next room. His anger had been made worse by the fact that the agents were taking the president farther down the dock, which meant he was moving away from 12th Street.
Still, he hadn’t given up hope. He was still watching intently, trying to see if the DS agents who arrived on the podium a split second later were pulling their principals back toward the motorcade. It was hard to see, because the cameraman had removed the camera from its stable platform, and judging from the jerky image, was having a hard time holding it steady in the crowd. Vanderveen knew that with all the people currently spread out over the marina, the Service would never be able to land a helicopter. So it was either the cars or a boat, and he felt a little bit better when it appeared that the agents were moving the French and Italian leaders back toward the cars. His earlier reconnaissance of the waterfront had served him well, and he might still be able to salvage some of his plan.
It was only then that he realized, with a sudden feeling of dread, that he had missed the whole point. Why had they pulled the president off the podium in the first place? He felt a tingle of fear as he stood up and turned to look out the window. What he saw turned the fear to shock in an instant.
It couldn’t be, he thought, but try as he might, there was no denying it: the person standing on Pennsylvania north of the plaza, held at gunpoint by the same police officer Vanderveen had talked to earlier, was none other than Ryan Kealey.
He nearly smiled at the scene. There was something almost comforting about the sight of his former commanding officer—it was like seeing a living link to the past. There was something vaguely amusing about it, too; after all, it wasn’t every day that a former Delta operator was caught out by a rookie cop, and that kid in particular didn’t look as if he belonged anywhere near a loaded firearm. Ryan must be getting sloppy.
Then the smile faded as he realized that they probably weren’t alone. The Bureau’s Hostage Rescue Team might already be surrounding the hotel, and they wouldn’t be interested in merely arresting a man who had killed eight of their own.
The decision came in a heartbeat: it was time to cut his losses. He had flipped the switch in the cab two hours earlier, right before his conversation with the police officer. Everything was ready. Vanderveen picked up his .40 caliber USP and jammed it into the waistband of his jeans, then pulled on his long, heavy coat to conceal the bulge. In his pocket was the cell phone, which he withdrew as soon as he stepped into the hall.
He briefly wondered how much of the blast he would feel in the shelter of the hotel, then decided that he didn’t care. He couldn’t wait for the motorcade, but for all the failure of the day, there was one small feeling of triumph: Ryan Kealey would not live to see the end of it.
Walking down the hall toward the elevators, Vanderveen flipped open the cell phone and pushed and held the number 1.
They were making some progress, but the young officer still had his 9mm trained on Kealey’s chest. “You come running down here with no ID, waving a gun, and now you say there’s a bomb in this van? I . . . look, I can’t let you in there.”
Ryan couldn’t understand why they weren’t already dead. Was this the wrong vehicle? Had he made a mistake? “I’m getting into this van,” he said. It wasn’t a request, and he began to move cautiously back to the passenger-side door. “Shoot me if you have to, but I’m getting in.”