“And now?” Uzi said.
“Let’s start with the fact that Hector’s here.” She looked at DeSantos, her head tilted ever so slightly, inviting him to jump in.
“And he doesn’t get involved in a case unless it’s a sensitive matter,” Uzi said, glancing at the damaged storefronts and streetscape.
“I’m standing right here,” DeSantos said. “You got a question?”
“You have the answers?” Vail asked. “Because, yeah, I’ve got questions. Like, What’s going on? What the hell happened? Who was the guy who got blown to bits?”
“Can’t tell you.”
Vail narrowed her eyes. “Don’t start with me.”
“Santa—”
“How about we go get some answers.” DeSantos handed booties to Vail and Uzi, then led them down the street and into the epicenter of the blast. Some of the men Vail saw arrive in the black trucks were poring over the wreckage, taking photos and measurements along the periphery and working their way closer to the body. Or what was left of it, which wasn’t much.
“Who are these guys?”
“A forensic crew,” DeSantos said.
Doesn’t look like any forensic crew I’ve ever seen.
“First impression?” Uzi said. “This was deliberate. And if that’s the case, Santa, it needs to be investigated as a terror attack until proven otherwise. As head of the JTTF—”
“That’s why you’re here, Boychick,” DeSantos said, using his nickname for Uzi — Yiddish for buddy.
Uzi glanced at Vail.
“Now you know how I feel,” she said.
“Look.” DeSantos gathered them together and said, “All I know is that officially this is being investigated as a gas main explosion. Unofficially, yeah, it’s a terrorist event. And that’s why you’re here.”
“If I’d been properly notified, I could’ve had my task force—”
“It’s sensitive. These guys dressed in black?” He turned to Vail. “They’re OPSIG operators.”
Vail knew OPSIG stood for Operations Support Intelligence Group — DeSantos’s unofficial employer — a black ops unit housed in the basement of the Pentagon that carried out covert, deniable missions around the world.
“Why is this an OPSIG mission?” she asked. “And why am I here?”
“My guess is that you owe Knox for getting your ass out of hot water in London. He needs your expertise and sensibilities on this. You also happened to be first on-scene and he needed someone here he could trust.”
I was hoping he wasn’t gonna say that. “I’m not a Special Forces operator. I haven’t had the training.”
“That,” DeSantos said, “will come.”
Can’t wait.
Two bright xenon headlights illuminated them, throwing their shadows across the buildings behind them.
“I think you’re about to get some answers,” DeSantos said.
The armored black Chevrolet Suburban SUV stopped alongside them and out stepped Douglas Knox, accompanied by two members of the director’s protection detail.
“Status?” Knox said, looking at Vail.
“Area secured. Expect calls from DC Metro and Fire.”
“Already taken care of.”
“May I ask—”
“Sir,” said one of the OPSIG agents. “We found something.”
They followed the man into the nearest residential apartment building, where the destruction was more pronounced. The odor of cordite was thick and the air was smoky. Using a tactical flashlight, he led them down into a basement room that was stocked with bomb-making materials — and vests in various stages of construction.
“Holy shit,” Vail said. “What are we looking at here?”
Knox turned to his protection detail. “Leave us.”
“But sir—”
Knox faced the OPSIG operator. “Has this room been cleared? The building?”
“Yes sir.”
“We’re fine here,” Knox said to the agents, who reluctantly left. When the door closed, he continued: “We received intel this morning that there was a high probability of the first-ever suicide bombing on US soil.”
Vail felt her stomach tighten. This was not just bad news. It was horrible news of the worst kind. Planes hitting skyscrapers resulting in mass murder was traumatic enough. But conventional suicide bombings in a major US city was a whole other kind of terror — one affecting tens of millions of people all day, every day, until the bomber or bombers were caught. The majority of the country’s population would be living on edge, waiting for the next explosion to rip through their restaurant, park, or playground.
“We’ve been working our sources trying to verify that information.”
“Why wasn’t I told?” Uzi asked.
Vail thought that was a very good question, but was surprised to see Uzi challenge the director so brazenly, particularly in front of others.
“I made a judgment call, Agent Uziel. Which I often do as FBI director.” Knox gave him an icy look. “Our source in Turkey, Cüneyt Ekrem, was—”
“Ekrem’s unreliable.”
“Exactly. And he’s failed us multiple times in the past. We only took it seriously because of the implications. The Agency has been unable to verify the intel with even one other source. We intercepted no communication suggesting such an attack was even being planned. Until half an hour ago. My next call was going to be to ASAC Shepard,” Knox said, referring to the assistant special agent in charge of the FBI task force, Marshall Shepard. Uzi’s boss.
Vail and Uzi exchanged a look — which she was unable to interpret.
“I never made that call because we got a report of an explosion.”
“The explosion was the result of my — and Agent Hernandez’s — gunfire.”
Knox turned to the OPSIG agent. “Was he wearing a suicide vest?”
“Yes sir. That’s what exploded.”
Knox swung his gaze back to Vail. “Was he planning to detonate?”
She played it back in her head. “I don’t think so. I’m guessing that he was trying it out, seeing how well he was able to conceal it under his coat. Hard to say. But Agent Filloon must’ve seen something that looked suspicious and confronted him. He shot Filloon and tried to get back to his hideout. But Robb — Agent Hernandez — and I engaged him and … well, the rest you know.”
Knox began pacing, the fingers of his right hand massaging his scalp.
“Was Filloon on duty?” Uzi asked.
“He was,” Knox said. “I’ve had a number of agents mobilized all over the district searching areas, talking with CIs, trying to get verification.”
“I should’ve been notified,” Uzi said. “I should’ve been part of that. With all due respect, sir.”
“Noted.” Knox stopped and glanced at the workshop table, detonators, circuits, and timers laid out before him. “At least we found him — and his factory.”
Vail followed Knox’s gaze. “And we’re keeping this quiet because …?”
“Because we don’t know what we’re dealing with yet,” Knox said. “And if Metro PD gets involved before we have our ducks lined up, things could get out of hand very quickly. Right now we need to manage the intel, manage the investigation, control who knows what, and when.”
Sounds to me like our FBI director is a control freak. Still, he does have a point. His logic is flawed for other reasons, but I’m not the one calling the shots.
“The public needs to know we’re under attack,” Uzi said. “They could become our eyes, which is particularly important when dealing with suicide bombers. Unfortunately, I know.”
Vail understood he was alluding to his time in Israel dealing with the Palestinian intifadas, where suicide attacks in Israeli towns killed scores of civilians in cafés, on school buses, in discos, at wedding ceremonies.