The members of Intel 1 scrambled. Savas stared at the screen, hardly seeing the ex-soldier's file. In his right hand was a page of archaic runes and an attack map, and running through his mind, the face and pendant of a dead assassin. Did it all fit together? He was sure it did. Somewhere was the key to link these strange bits of evidence and the progression of killings across the globe. In the chaos surrounding them, he hoped they could find it.
17
Savas's mind raced as he listened to Cohen's animated words. Their FBI vehicle crossed over the George Washington Bridge, en route to the New Jersey distribution offices of a military weapons manufacturer. The company representatives had sounded shell-shocked when he explained the reasons the FBI wanted to speak with them. They were also in full denial mode. Their explosives? Impossible. Well, the analysis had shown it was all too possible. These guys had some serious explaining to do, and Savas was going to be there to hear it.
“John, are you listening?”
He refocused. “Yes, Rebecca, sorry. I'm thinking ahead to the meeting today.”
“So then, what do we have?”
Savas sighed. “Two massive bombings targeting foreign embassies in separate cities. We've got the UN screaming their lungs out at the United States, and half of their reps booking flights out of the country. We've got the president on TV trying to calm the nation down, trying to calm the whole world down, while offering our jobs to the meat grinder if we don't find out what in the name of God is going on here. That's what we've got.”
The Hudson streamed by two hundred feet below them. Savas could sense their driver trying to listen in on the conversation. He couldn't blame the man. The world seemed to be burning down. “Still no group has claimed responsibility.”
“It's crazy,” said Cohen, shaking her head. “There was nothing, nothing on any of the watches for terrorist chatter, which makes no sense! Since when does a terrorist organization plan and execute coordinated multicity attacks of this magnitude, pull them off, and all without a sound? In 2001, we had NSA and even German intelligence intercepts of al-Qaeda chatter on the attacks. This time, it was as quiet as the vacuum of space.”
“They're also not some bunch of fanatics who learned how to fly planes into buildings or how to rig IEDs,” said Savas. “Surgical strikes, surgical bombings that were carried out under our noses, under security, and set up to take out single buildings and no more.”
Cohen nodded and completed his thought. “It takes professional expertise with munitions to do something like this. Put that together with the skill in how they pulled it off, and you have a group of terrorists with a talent base we've never seen before.”
The vehicle rattled roughly as they transitioned from the bridge to the New Jersey Turnpike. Savas felt his stomach lurch.
“You brought the forensics report?” he asked as the car exited quickly onto the Palisades Parkway. The monotonous gray of the turnpike transitioned suddenly, jarringly into the greens of the New Jersey forests.
“The FBI–CIA teams fast-tracked some results to us, and my initial analysis of the report indicates that it fits very well with the preliminary assessment.”
“Mira got them to turn it over so fast?”
“Who else? She sent PDF files to all our secure accounts this morning.”
Mirjana Vujanac. Vujanac came from Serbian grandparents. Savas's own Balkan ancestry provided a connection between them, and he also liked her for her basic decency. Ironically, her job as head of the Joint Offices group was to help de-Balkanize the intelligence organizations in the US government, serving as a focal point for interactions between the FBI and the CIA. It was a highly sensitive position, unpopular with both agencies, but Mira was the perfect person to balance the mutual paranoia and ego with her patient and winning personality. This case looked like it would require extended work with the CIA and other organizations. They were going to need Vujanac on this one.
“The initial analysis is solid?”
“Definitely.” Cohen had put on her sharp-edged, Euro-style eyeglasses, the kind that always increased a woman's sex appeal in an elegant way. Her expression was serious as she looked over the report, giving her the appearance of a graduate student presenting a paper.
“Looks like a recent derivative of the explosive Semtex was used,” she said. “Mass-spectroscopy analysis of numerous samples now confirms this. Same as the prelim report: judging from the molecular weight of the compounds, it's almost certainly homegrown. There are only two plants in the world that make this stuff, both run by the Heward Corporation. This stuff is made in the USA all the way.”
Savas glanced out the window as the vehicle slowed and headed off the ramp. The green of the parkway surrendered to the landscaped parking lot that boxed in a six-floor office building.
“Well, we're here. Let's see what they have to say about that.”
It was a frustrating half-hour before they sat down in the stale-smelling office. The two had run an obstacle course of security checkpoints for the vehicle and at the front door, temporary ID badges, metal detectors, and finally a walk down a long corridor to the office of a local divisions manager. It was a tranquil space, softly lit and shadowed by tall trees covering the window at one end of a rectangular room. A quiet space for the distributors of the world's most advanced explosives.
As they entered and shook hands, Savas noted the presence of two other men, open briefcases at their sides. The lawyers had arrived. Savas smiled. One lawyer meant denial. Two, limited accountability. The company must have gotten the new report from Vujanac this morning as well.
“Agent Savas, Fred Reynolds,” began the manager, the firmness of his handshake doing little to conceal the perspiration on his palm. “Welcome. Please, won't you sit down?”
“This is my colleague, Rebecca Cohen, also from the NYC branch.”
The man shook Cohen's hand as well. “This is Michael Ivy and Brian Colbert,” introduced Reynolds as the two lawyers stood up. “They are here to help advise me in any legal ramifications of our discussions.”
Savas and Cohen exchanged greetings with the men.
“I'm sorry you two found it necessary to come all the way out here,” said Reynolds, as they all sat around the conference table. “As we said over the phone, we were happy to come into the city tomorrow.”
And give your legal eagles twenty-four more hours to coach you into admitting even less than you will today. “Couldn't wait, Mr. Reynolds. This is as red alert as it gets. National security priority.”
The man's face seemed to tighten. “Yes, of course.”
Savas nodded to Cohen, who stepped up to the plate. She opened her briefcase across from the lawyers and placed several documents on the table. “Mr. Reynolds, I assume you have had a chance to examine our forensics reports.”
“Yes,” he began stiffly. “Yes, we have.” He glanced at the other two men. “We are prepared to acknowledge that the material used in the bombings came from our nearby factory.”
Cohen glanced briefly at Savas. At least they wouldn't have to fight that battle. She made sure. “To confirm our results, this is your newest high-tech explosive, S-47, that matches the chemical analysis?”