Takedown

From behind his frameless glasses, the Defense Intelligence Agency’s chief of staff, Timothy Bedford, fixed the two FBI men with a steady gaze and replied, “Nothing. We’ll handle it from here.”

As Bedford stood up to leave he added, “And, gentlemen, please remember the national security implications of this issue. As far as anyone is concerned, our meeting never took place.”

Once Bedford had left the director’s conference room and the door had shut behind him, Sorce remarked, “I never did like that guy. It’s no wonder Waddell uses him to do his dirty work. What does he mean, this meeting never took place? At least two dozen people saw him come in here. What an asshole.”

Caldwell smiled. “The fact that his tie is knotted a bit too tight notwithstanding, what are we going to do about this?”

“What can we do?” asked Sorce as he stood up from his chair. “You saw the letter he was carrying from the president. We’ve been told in no uncertain terms to stay out of their operation.”

“And in the process lie to people we should be working with-in particular, Lawlor, who’s a former deputy director of the Bureau?”

“I don’t like it either, Stan, but that’s the way it is. Listen, we’ve got too much on our plates now anyway.”

“And it could skyrocket if Gary is right about a secondary attack,” said Caldwell as his attention was drawn to an urgent message coming in on his pager.

Sorce opened the door of the conference room and nodded to his staff that he was ready to return to the floor of the Strategic Information and Operations Center, or SIOC, for a quick morale booster. But before he left, he turned and said, “The next several hours are going to be absolutely critical, so let’s make sure we’re focused on doing our job.”

“Which is, using anything and anyone at our disposal to stop any further terrorist attacks, correct?” queried Caldwell as he looked up from the message on his pager.

The director’s ability to read people was the sine qua non of his successful leadership of the FBI. He knew what his deputy was driving at. “As long as you operate within the framework of the law and remain faithful to your oath of duty, you’ll have my full support.”

“Even if it means potentially pissing off the president?”

Sorce looked Caldwell in the eye and said, “For the record, I left the room after I told you to operate within the framework of the law-”

“And remain faithful to my oath of duty,” added Caldwell. “I got it.”

Twenty-Three

NEW YORK CITY

Scot Harvath slid his BlackBerry back into the plastic holder at his waist and said, “The official word from the FBI is that the JTTF duty officer has no idea what he’s talking about.”

Herrington looked at him and replied, “He seemed pretty sure of himself to me.”

“Even so, they suggest we find a search-and-rescue team and focus our efforts in that direction.”

“I think I’d rather focus my efforts on catching terrorists.”

“Me too,” said Harvath.

“So where are we?”

“Apparently on the corner of Ignorance and Bliss without a goddamn clue.”

“Why would the FBI cover up the DIA’s involvement in all of this?” asked Herrington.

“Who knows? I can’t figure any of these people out anymore. Subterfuge on top of subterfuge, all wrapped up with prime government red tape. It’s getting harder and harder to believe we’re all on the same side.”

“Agent Harvath,” yelled a voice from behind them. “Agent Harvath!”

They turned to see the JTTF duty officer running out of the revolving door of 26 Federal Plaza.

“I think I might have something for you,” he said.

“Like what?” asked Herrington.

“NYPD picked up a guy at the temporary PATH station at the World Trade Center just off Church Street. They think he was supposed to be one of the bombers.”

“What makes them think that?” asked Harvath.

“They found him with a backpack full of explosives that failed to go off. There’s nobody from our office who can get over there right away, so I’ve been authorized to give you first crack at him, if you want it.”

“Authorized by whom?”

“Stan Caldwell, deputy director of the FBI.”

As Scot and Bob walked toward the NYPD’s 1st Precinct on Ericsson Place, the street scenes were surreal. On some there were absolutely no signs of life. On others, entire avenues were taken over by throngs of people still pouring out of lower Manhattan, making their way north. As part of the city’s emergency plan, the subways had been shut down and many streets were restricted to emergency vehicles only. The drivers who were still out, searching for a way off the island, faced an absolute traffic nightmare, with most of their routes blocked by people who had abandoned their vehicles and had fled on foot.

To make matters worse, the sky was obliterated by a smoky haze, while a powdery gray ash, as if it were the cremated remains of the victims themselves, had begun falling across the city.