The Enemy Within

The rain was falling even harder by the time Peter Thorn and Helen Gray strode across the narrow gap between the command trailer and the press building. Both of them carried sealed bags containing sterile, white plastic suits and plastic booties that would go on over their shoes. Special Agent Flynn’s instructions to his special task force were dear. He wanted to make sure the investigators themselves didn’t track in clothing fibers, dust, or mud that might confuse the — forensics experts combing through the explosion site. They’d also been issued hard hats that were color-coded to indicate status and function at a glance. As a member of the FBI task force command section, Helen’s was black. After minor haggling with the agent manning the security desk, Thorn had been issued a blue hard hat. The color proclaimed his status for now as an on-site observer.

Thorn looked up for a moment before entering the building, ignoring the rain sleeting into his face. From the outside, there was little visible bomb damage. The windows on all the top floors were blown out, and there were scorch marks visible on the concrete facade either from the blast itself or from the resulting fires but beyond that, the structure itself seemed largely untouched.

But when he and Helen stepped out of the central stairwell a few minutes later, he realised how horribly deceiving those external appearances were. It was hard to believe that this charred slaughterhouse had once been the third floor of the National Press Office. Rust-brown smears of dried blood were splashed everywhere on the scorched floor and walls. Massive hydraulic jacks braced the ceiling and some of the walls, indicating the immense force of the explosion.

Teams of coroners’ assistants in white protective suits were hard at work in every corner of the room, still tagging bodies and parts of bodies for eventual removal. Similarly clothed photographers moved among them, taking hundreds of pictures to build a coherent record of the scene for later use in the investigation. Even the distribution of the dead could provide important clues to the number, distribution, and types of bombs that had gone off inside the room.

Other teams of FBI agents and forensics specialists worked around and among the coroners, making precise measurements, sifting through the rubble, and collecting even the tiniest fragments of metal, plastic, paper, and cloth for more detailed lab work and analysis. In what was almost an obscene parody of an archaeological dig, even the smallest pieces of possible evidence were carefully tagged with the time of discovery and their precise location. Brigh. 1 hard hats identified experts in explosives. White, yellow, and green helmets signified fingerprint, finer, and electronics specialists. Everyone wore the same plastic suits and thick rubber gloves.

Thorn breathed in and fought down a sudden impulse to gagA foul stench hung in the air a stomach-turning blend of smoke, blood, the sickly sweet odor left by explosives, and the acrid reek of powerful disinfectants. He heard Helen coughing, but though pale, she was in full control when he looked at her.

She swallowed hard and motioned toward the near corner of the dining room where several other members of the task force command section stood conferring over a set of blueprints. “I’ve got to check in. Coming?”

Thorn nodded and trailed her through the tangled heaps of smashed, burned tables and chairs, careful to stay inside the cleared paths marked by yellow police tape pinned to the floor. He was already treading on ice just by being here without express authorisation, so there wasn’t much sense in trampling ungathered evidence.

The shortest of the men grouped around the blueprints glanced up at their approach. “Helen, glad to see you made it through the mob out there.” He looked curiously at Thorn, clearly not able to place him.

“Tom, this is Colonel Peter Thorn. He’s with the JSOC and one of the Army’s top counterterrorism experts,” Helen said, accurately if somewhat disingenuously. She turned to Thorn. “Colonel, this is Special Agent Thomas Koenig. He’s the number two man on the task force.”

The two men shook hands and stood sizing each other up while the other agents introduced themselves in a blur of names Thorn forgot almost as soon as he heard them. Aside from Special Agent Flynn himself, Koenig was the man who could make or break this informal consulting role Helen envisioned.

“You here on a mission, Pete?” Koenig asked finally.

Thorn shook his head slightly. “Just a watching brief, Tom. This is the FBI’s solo show as far as I’m concerned.”

He noticed Koenig relax minutely and hid a wry smile. Despite the clear edicts placing domestic terrorism incidents under the Bureau’s jurisdiction, turf battles with other interested agencies and departments like the DOD were not uncommon, especially in such a high-profile case.

“Where’s Flynn?” Helen asked, scanning the room.