The call lasted less than a half minute, during which time the president said nothing other than “Yes?” when he picked up and “Thank you” when he put down the receiver. Then he briefed the others. The Homeland Security chief hadn’t viewed it as a personal slight; ego had nothing to do with this. It just felt odd to have the commander in chief tell him what his own people had learned: that within the last five minutes instructions were sent to one of the hostages, Colin Dearborn, a student at the University of Virginia, from an account belonging to his aunt Allison Dearborn.
To his credit, Brenneman turned first to Carlson to ask his opinion. The Homeland Security chief quickly put his personal feelings aside to digest the latest development and advise the president.
“The five minutes would have just expired,” Carlson said. He was already busy accessing the file with the tweets of Colwriter123. “Joe, any changes in the grid?”
The SIOC chief was looking off camera. “Checking,” he said, drawing out the word. “Thermal imaging shows movement in one of the rooms. It’s in two-twenty-four.”
CIA director Andrews had brought up Kealey’s RAP sheet-his Retirement Assessment Profile. Though Kealey’s sessions with Allison Dearborn were confidential, psychotherapists were required to file a brief analysis on all retiring personnel with high-level security clearance or a history of “personal enforcement”-a polite way of saying they’d killed someone on the job. The RAP was a series of twenty-five questions with boxes marked VERY LIKELY, LIKELY, and NOT LIKELY. The RAP sheet was designed to flag agents who had a history of money problems or would miss the excitement of government-sanctioned murder. For these people, personal issues such as divorce, unemployment in the civilian sector, or dissatisfaction with political issues could drive them to sell information to foreign operatives or commit violent acts.
Kealey had scored extremely low on the “selling information” likelihood, just 2 percent, and very high on the “likelihood of violence”. If he happened to come upon a situation like the current one, the formula said there was a 90 percent chance he would not only become involved but would find a way, in Dearborn’s own words, to “finesse the scenario toward his strengths.”
Finesse was not a word Andrews would apply to Kealey. He had once described the agent as the nuke they’d fire at an asteroid rushing toward earth. But Kealey also knew Julie Harper, knew where she was. Andrews had no doubt that her safety was in his mental heads-up display, and there was no one Andrews would rather have on-site than him.
“Mr. President,” Andrews said, “Kealey would know we’re monitoring chatter on the SocNets-”
“I think we all got that part,” Shirley Choate interrupted. “He was your guy. What’s his game?”
The National Intelligence head was the former Detroit chief of police. Her aggressive tactics had brought peace to the impoverished city and an impatient muscularity to the president’s team. While they all respected her judgment and out-of-the-box thinking, her style did not make her any friends.
Jon Harper-who hadn’t needed the RAP sheet to put him in the mind of Ryan Kealey-swiveled toward her.
“He was my guy, actually,” Harper said. “And he doesn’t play games.”
Expecting the question from someone, Harper had pulled up Kealey’s service record. He sent it to her. Had Choate done more than glance at it, she would have seen how Kealey was fast-tracked to U.S. Army major in eight years, made captain a chestful of medals later, led an A-team in Bosnia, and became a Company man at thirty years old. He spent the next three years with the Special Activities Division, putting out wildfires in places no one else could get to, in ways no one else had even considered.
“What he’s going to do, ” Harper went on, “is draw the hostage takers’ attention to the phone-which is obviously taking place as we speak.” He regarded the president. “Sir… whatever turf wars may be going on outside the center, and they surely are, we need to cut through that and get him support ASAP.”
The president turned to the wall monitor. “Mr. Ferrara, where are your men?”
“Preparing to go in,” the FBI officer replied.
“No, get them in that building now, ” he ordered.
“Yes, sir.”
“Joe, Kealey is armed and he will probably be firing,” Andrews added, his eyes on the 90 percent number. “Tell them not to shoot him.”
CHAPTER 9
BALTIMORE, MARYLAND
Kealey glanced at his chronograph wristwatch. It was nearly time. The five minutes were up. Hopefully, Colin had done as his aunt had instructed. Kealey had built in a minute after that to execute his own section of the plan.
Down in the exhibition hall, guns had sporadically resumed their raging outbursts amid the cries of the wounded and panic-stricken.
He turned to Allison, who was still crouched with him in the walkway. Her eyes looked glazed.
“You with me?” he asked.
She nodded.
“Okay. Once we’re out of here, run straight across the mezzanine to those conference rooms. It shouldn’t take us more than fifteen seconds-half a minute, tops.”
Allison looked at him. “That’s going to leave me a moving target, Ryan.”
Kealey regarded her steadfastly. “No, it isn’t.” He shrugged a shoulder, slipped off one of the MP5Ks he’d taken from a fallen gunman. He tugged open its folding stock. “You see how I’m holding this?”
She nodded slowly.
“Once the stock’s extended, it locks into place. If you have to fire, brace it against yourself, like so.” He demonstrated, pushing the stock against his upper arm. ”Keep one hand around the grip, the other around the foregrip. Your fingers should be rigid, but don’t squeeze. It’ll help prevent the gun from jerking.”
She nodded slowly as he gave the weapon to her. She held it as he’d shown. “Is this right?”
“Yeah,” Kealey said, his eyes intent.
He was thinking that Allison appeared to be in good shape, certainly strong enough to handle the weapon. Other than with the M60 machine gun, he’d never found kickback to be a major consideration, and even that hadn’t been too bad. She would have no chance to get used to the weapon’s feel and was apt to miss a lot. The advantage of an assault weapon was that it would give her more opportunities of not missing than a pistol.
“You’ve got a full magazine,” he went on. “That’s thirty rounds. The selector’s set for three-round bursts. If you have to fire, pull the trigger with your fingertip. Don’t wrap your finger around it like you’re scratching. You want to maintain a light touch, and you want to keep the weapon as steady as possible.”
Allison nodded again. She had already slipped the MP5K’s strap over her shoulder, in a practiced motion that made it seem like a handbag. Now she was looking over the gun with what appeared to be rapt revulsion. It was a strange expression.
“Guess I should have taken some firearms training,” she said.
“You can start tomorrow,” Kealey said. He was checking the dial of his watch again. The second hand had just crossed the one-minute mark. “Last thing, Allison. When we move, bend as low as you can. In any case, keep your head down. That’s coming out of the walkway and on the mezzanine. Got it?”
Allison nodded. She looked down at the phone, which she held in her left hand. Even knowing that both the cell and his watch were set by radio transmitter, Kealey had made sure they were in time-standard sync. Every moment would be crucial.
He started counting down at a whisper. “Five, four, three, two
…”
At the zero mark Allison touched her finger to Colin’s one-touch call listing, raised the phone to her ear, and listened for the first ring. Then she dropped the phone into her purse, the connection with her nephew left open.