Savas nodded in a satisfied manner. “Mr. Carter, that is the right thing to do. What a true patriot would do.”
The man nodded awkwardly and hustled over to a set of phones. The woman apparently felt more comfortable with her supervisor and followed him closely, leaving Savas and Cohen alone.
“You get all that?” he asked quietly, motioning with his head toward her voice recorder. “That was sheer genius.”
“No,” she said flatly. “I don't think I've changed the battery on this thing for two years.” Savas made a quick face indicating how disappointed he was. Cohen stared at him through her dark-brown sunglasses. “What a true patriot would do?” Savas waved her off as Carter hurried back over.
“Agent Savas. I have spoken with the floor administrative assistant in charge of general issues for several offices, including Mr. Gunn's, sir. She was most upset with this request, I must say,” he continued, sweat now beading on his forehead. “However, I managed to impress upon her the seriousness of this matter. She has agreed to speak with you upstairs, although, regrettably, she cannot offer you a meeting with Mr. Gunn today.”
Savas smiled at the man. “Mr. Carter, you have done a service to your country, a country that is under attack. Thank you for getting us this far. I will remember your help in this matter.” The man smiled both anxiously and modestly, then turned toward Cohen, his smile fading under the relentless gaze of her sunglasses and expressionless face.
“Please, right this way, follow me.” Carter gestured, stepping toward the security line. It was the express route through the line, up the elevators, and to the fiftieth floor of the building. The doors opened revealing a lower, standard-height ceiling, fluorescent lighting, and a large desk not more than ten feet in front of the elevator doors. Behind the desk sat an older woman with a stern face, talking into a Bluetooth headset and typing on a computer. She motioned for them to wait.
Carter led them up to the large wraparound desk and waited quietly. Savas was in no mood to wait. He checked his watch and spoke to the woman.
“Ma'am, which way to Mr. Gunn's office?”
She continued talking and typing but held up one finger, indicating for him to wait. Savas began to walk around the desk toward the hallway on the right. “It's alright, ma'am,” he said, as her eyes widened and she began to spin around in her chair to follow him. “I'll find it myself.”
Richard Carter looked stunned, and Cohen made a motion to follow Savas. The woman at the desk stood up and called after him. “Sir! You cannot go back there! Sir! Stop! Mr. Gunn is busy! He cannot see you now!”
Savas turned to Cohen. “Stall her.” The hound at the desk would not be so easy to cow as Carter had been. Savas knew she would have security on him within a short span; Cohen might buy him a few minutes. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Cohen moving to intervene as Carter was speaking excitedly to the woman, waving his arms.
Savas strode purposefully down the hallway, passing offices and conference rooms. Always appear confident. A lesson he learned bluffing his way to buy booze as a teenager and as a cop in an armed standoff on the streets. The big man's office would be easy to find, likely at the end of the hallway, most likely protected by another guard dog. There. The hall opened to a larger space filled with another large desk. Behind it sat a young woman. Behind her and to the left was a magnificent door, cherry wood by the look of it, built thick and carved with adornments. The woman was on the phone, a concerned expression on her face. Word has come from the front lines, thought Savas.
She stood up, the phone still to her ear. “Sir, I'm afraid I will have to—”
Savas flashed his badge. “FBI, ma'am,” he said pushing past her and her objections and opening the door.
It was a magnificent office. Larger by far than anything he had seen or even imagined at the FBI, decorated with very expensive furniture and paintings. The wall opposite the entrance was not a wall but a room-length window opening out to the heart of the city. Behind an enormous and beautiful wooden desk sat a man Savas had only seen in FBI photos and on the Internet. Tall, thin, silver hair framing a hard and handsome face. Set in the middle were two burning gray eyes.
“Mr. William Gunn?” asked Savas, bursting into the room.
Gunn glanced up from his computer screen with an angry look. He hit a key sharply and stood up to face Savas.
“What is the meaning of this?” he asked.
Savas heard a fluttering behind him, and the young woman from outside rushed in front of him and faced Gunn.
“Mr. Gunn, sir, I'm sorry!” she began breathlessly. “I tried to keep him out. He's come through Jennifer and from below and won't listen and…”
“Calm down, Marianne,” he said, turning toward Savas. “Who are you, and what is going on here?”
Savas smiled. “My name is John Savas, Agent John Savas from the FBI.” He went through the age-old movie scene and flipped out his ID. Gunn registered no distress and appeared, if anything, intrigued.
His assistant chirped behind Savas. “Mr. Gunn, sir, security is on its way. They already have the other one.”
“Marianne, please, a servant of the people is here. Call off security. Another agent?” The woman nodded. “Please go and bring him here as well. Something important must be on the minds of these agents to have gone through such trouble to speak to me.” He turned toward Savas. “I wish you had contacted me first and avoided all this bother. I am a rather insulated man. It helps me maintain my focus.”
He motioned toward the chairs in front of his desk. “Please, won't you have a seat?”
This is one cool customer. Savas nodded and sat down as Gunn moved back around his desk, entered a few keystrokes into his computer, and sat down.
“Please tell me how I can help you today.”
Savas stared directly at him. “Today, in four locations around the world, terrorists struck mosques, blowing them to bits along with all the people in and around them. One of those attacks happened just uptown from here at the Manhattan Mosque.”
Gunn nodded slowly, eyeing Savas coldly. “Yes, I have seen the footage. Terrible. The second attack in our city in just a few months.”
“Yes, one of many since the first attack in June that have been linked to a terrorist organization called Mjolnir.”
Gunn stared silently. “I'm not familiar with the name.”
“Few are.”
“How have you traced this Mjolnir to the bombings, Agent Savas?”
“Not only bombings but a series of assassinations of prominent Islamic radicals, as well. They are a very busy organization. One thing that we have linked them to through our forensics team is the plastic explosive S-47.”
Gunn shook his head and raised his eyebrows. “S-47? I'm sorry, Agent Savas, I don't know much about explosives.”
“It's a very new form of Semtex, more powerful, more versatile. The details are not important. Traces of this material have been found at every bombing site associated with Mjolnir.”
At that moment, Savas heard sounds at the door behind him. Gunn rose and asked his secretary, “Marianne — this is the other agent?” Savas turned to see Cohen standing in the doorway, her hair disheveled, her blouse untucked and wrinkled. He winced to think of the security guards manhandling her.
“Yes, Mr. Gunn. She was in the custody of our guards, and I brought her back up as soon as you requested.”
Gunn walked chivalrously toward Cohen and motioned to the seat beside Savas. Cohen, her glasses gone, straightened her clothes and walked stiffly over to sit next to Savas, never glancing in his direction. He understood. She couldn't look into his eyes and maintain her composure.