The Enemy Within

“Helen, this is Lang.” The HRT commander sounded strangely shaken. “I hate to disturb you, but I’m afraid your leave’s been canceled. I need you to meet me at Hoover ASAP.” “What’s up?” she demanded.

“Turn on CNN.”

Helen turned toward the television at the foot of Peter’s bed. Reacting to the sudden tension in her voice, he was already up and getting dressed. He saw her urgent gesture and switched the set on.

She gasped as the first pictures filled the screen. Fire trucks and ambulances crowded a city street near the center of Washington, D.C., surrounding a blast-shattered building. A dark haze hung over the site smoke from the still-burning structure.

“Recap what we know so far, at ten minutes after twelve this afternoon, a huge explosion ripped through the National Press Club during a speech by the Reverend Walter Steele, one of the country’s foremost civil rights leaders and a rumored candidate for the presidency. Unconfirmed reports from the scene indicate that Steele and as many as two hundred others were killed in the blast. Among those known to be attending the luncheon were several congressmen and high-ranking administration officials.” The CNN announcer’s voice wavered. “As well as some of the world’s top reporters, including several who work for this network.”

A poor-quality still photo of an American flag emblazoned with a swastika replaced the chaotic street scene. “Police sources have reported that, shortly after the blast, calls were received by the two major D.C. area newspapers claiming responsibility for the attack in the name of the New Aryan Order, a little-known, extreme right-wing group. The callers have been quoted as demanding that ‘the white race in America begin a war of purification.’ ”

The CNN anchorwoman appeared on camera, still clearly shaken. “We will bring you the latest information on this tragedy as it arrives…”

Thorn snapped the television off and Helen turned back to the phone. Lang was still waiting on the line for her. “Jesus Christ, John.”

“Yeah. It’s pretty bad.” The HRT commander fell silent for a few seconds. When he spoke again, his voice was calmer. “How long will it take you to get to D.C., Helen?”

“Forty-five minutes,” she replied, already sorting out her clothes from the pile on the floor.

“Good. The Director is putting together a special task force to investigate this bombing, and I’m putting you and your section on it.”

Helen nodded. The evidence was that this was a terrorist attack. If they could pinpoint the people responsible, whoever headed the task force would need an HRT force under his immediate command to round them up. “Who’s in charge? Not McDowell, I hope.”

The ghost of a smile sounded in Lang’s reply. “No, not McDowell. They’re flying Mike Flynn in from San Francisco.”

Flynn. The name tugged at Helen’s memory. “The guy who investigated the Golden Gate Bridge bomb attack?” “That’s him,” Lang said. “He’ll be here by seven. I want you here to meet him and the rest of the task force. I’ll brief you on the other details in person.”

“Understood.” Helen hit the disconnect button and started throwing on clothes with reckless haste. She could sort out her appearance in one of the women’s washrooms at the Hoover Building later. The most important thing was to get on the road before the highways clogged up for the afternoon rush hour.

Her last sight of Peter Thorn as she hurried out of his town house was his frustrated face. He’d spent his career preparing to hit terrorists overseas and now all the action had shifted to the U.S. out of his jurisdiction and out of his control.

CHAPTER 12 PRESSURE COOKER

NOVEMBER 6

Outside the National Press Club, Washington, D.C.

Under a dismal, overcast November sky, throngs of onlookers, reporters, and camera crews pressed against the police barricades deployed to maintain a security zone around the bomb-gutted National Press Office building. The FBI-led task force charged with investigating the bombing had sealed an area a full city block wide around the crime scene.

Helen Gray stopped short of the police line, taking a good hard look at the organised pandemonium gripping the area just two blocks from the White House. Parked squad cars, ambulances, fire engines, and official vehicles belonging to nearly a dozen different federal and District of Columbia governmental agencies jammed almost every square foot of Fourteenth Street. Hard-faced D.C. police officers, wearing rain gear against the impending storm, manned the barricades, checking identity cards before allowing anyone in or out of the secure zone. (jars and trucks were backed up noseto-tail for blocks in every direction.