Team Leader sat on the passenger side of the cab, the radio tuned to an AM news station, just one of many he had listened to during transport. He stared at the passing landscape with eyes that seemed detached, yet fully aware.
Earlier that morning he had a member of Omega Team place an easily-traced call to CNN from a D.C. pay phone. By then, the transport team was already nearly three hundred miles north, the distance covered before a dragnet could be extended from the nation’s capitol.
The timing and location of the call was a red herring. He wanted Washington to believe that the Soldiers of Islam were still in the D.C. area, so that the scope of their search would be concentrated to a smaller radius. But the ruse failed. According to the news, road blocks had been set up on all major highways north, west, and south of the capitol, stretching as far as New York, Florida, and Texas.
Though he had considered his strategy carefully, Team Leader was concerned about the blockades after their military vehicle was stopped by law enforcement on two separate occasions in New York. But when he showed them counterfeit documents claiming their vehicle to be from the 75th Ranger Regiment, a division of the US Army Special Operation Command, the vehicle was waved through without so much as a cursory examination.
Once the truck exited the turnpike and entered Boston central, the driver passed Government Center and negotiated the narrow streets to a pre-established safe house located in Boston’s Historical District.
The isolated building was an old and vacant depository made of aged brick, which had cracked and discolored from time and neglect. The first-floor windows were bricked over. The second- and third-story windows, however, were merely boarded over with weathered plywood. The trees surrounding the building were either dead or dying, their limbs knotted like the arthritic twists of an old man’s hands. The area had simply gone to waste.
A wrought-iron gate bearing a “No Trespassing: All Violators Prosecuted” sign was securely locked with a thick garland of chain wrapped firmly around the bars. Team Leader got out of the vehicle, searched his pocket for the proper key, and undid the lock. Once the vehicle passed through, he closed and relocked the gate.
The vehicle drove slowly down the weed-laden driveway. Wispy branches from the trees above snapped as the top of the vehicle forced its way through the canopy of skeletal limbs. At the end of the driveway the truck turned into a vacant area behind the building.
There stood a dented fire door, the only way in and out of the building. The entry had been reinforced prior to the mission with a state-of-the-art titanium lock. Reaching into his cargo pocket, Team Leader removed a remote unit and aimed it at the entry. When he depressed a button the bolt mechanism drew back in a series of hollow, metallic clicks, and then the red light on the remote’s faceplate turned green, an indication that the door was unlocked.
Moving toward the entry, Team Leader turned the handle, opening the door to a world that was truly blacker than pitch.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The FBI’s conference room was much larger and less constrictive than the White House’s Situation Room. The room had twenty-foot ceilings and was nearly 1600 square feet. The walls were covered in dark walnut paneling, and serving as the room’s focal point, an oil painting of J. Edgar Hoover watched over everyone with his patented scowl. In the center of the room was a large table that held up to three dozen people comfortably, with pitchers of ice water spaced every three feet along the table’s length.
The FBI’s Deputy Director, George Pappandopolous, sat at one end of the table. Normally a man of good cheer, he seemed somewhat detached and disenchanted, his smiles false, his greetings insincere. It seemed to Shari as if he had already resigned himself to losing the battle over the pope’s abduction. She hoped this wasn’t the case.
Taking her assigned seat opposite the deputy director, Shari knew that she was about to become the lightning rod of attention.
To her right sat Billy Paxton, who appeared displeased. He had always played the back-up role, never taking the lead — always the electric violin to her Stradivarius. She had become an insurmountable obstacle in his life, preventing him from elevating to the next level. He was always being compared to her but never measuring up. So when she said “Hello,” he simply ignored her.
As chatter circulated around the room, Deputy Director George Pappandopolous leaned forward and clasped his hands. Securing the attention of the room, he went directly to the core of the matter.
“As you all know, the president’s detail was dispatched by a radical terrorist cell who call themselves the Soldiers of Islam. The incident falls under FBI jurisdiction, but we will nevertheless be working with all international intelligence sources that are ready to aid in the search and rescue of the pope and the governor. So let’s get one thing straight: I don’t want anybody on my team sitting on vital data. There are fifteen intelligence agencies in this country and dozens more worldwide, and we’re to work closely with all of them. Is that clear?”
There was a unified murmur of agreement.
“Here’s what I’ve got so far, just to update you as to what’s going on,” he continued. “We haven’t received any demands from the Soldiers of Islam as of yet. The only call received was the one to CNN at approximately zero-seven-hundred hours. We do know, however, the identities of all terrorists involved. You’ll find their cover sheets and bios in front of you.”
The assembled agents opened the manila folders before them and began examining the documents inside.
“We also know they had ties to al-Qaeda and are presumed to have gone rogue, so we’ll need to develop a strategy to communicate and make the necessary concessions without any foreknowledge of their methods. By the direct authority of the attorney general, Ms. Cohen, who is sitting opposite me, is to take command in this situation with Mr. Paxton acting as speaker.”
Paxton winced as if a gas bubble had lodged painfully in his chest. Is that what he had been reduced to? A mouthpiece? It just seemed disrespectful. Especially for someone who received Congressional approval to act on behalf of the American government in distant lands.
“For those of you who may not know, Ms. Cohen is an expert in counterterrorism and psychoanalytical strategy. Therefore, the attorney general feels that Ms. Cohen is best qualified to command this post. In other words, first there’s God and then there’s Ms. Cohen who will be in direct contact with Chief Presidential Advisor Alan Thornton. There is no other chain of command. She… is… it.” Pappandopolous eased back into his chair. “Good luck,” he added, “because we’re going to need it on this one.” He offered Shari the stage by directing a hand toward her. “Ms. Cohen.”
Shari tilted her head in the direction of the deputy director and thanked him. She opened her manila folder and began to peel a page at a time from the stack of papers.
“All right,” she said. “The first rule of thumb is to never assume anything, because everything changes and changes quickly. Therefore, you have to make adjustments and decisions according to the moment. We know the insurgents are Islamic and have an unyielding conviction to die for a cause. So… what else do we need to know?” She raised her hand and ticked off a finger with each question.