The Zero Hour

“You’ll figure it out in no time. Most of the good stuff is at CIA, which maintains the principal government terrorism database. It’s divided into two parts-the interagency one, and another one that’s parochial to CIA, containing operational information, sources and methods, and so on. Also I need someone-Christine?-to check out any connections between our terrorist and the right-wing maniacs who did OKBOMB.”

“I doubt there’s anything,” Vigiani said. “This is clearly international-”

“I agree with you. But just run a check, okay? Rule it out.”

“Sarah, what about Elkind?” Pappas said. “He’s still the best lead we’ve got. If he can be persuaded his bank is being targeted, he’s got to be a little more receptive.”

“Yeah,” Sarah said with a heavy sigh. “He should be, shouldn’t he?” Unless he’s holding something back, she thought.

***

Perry Taylor’s telephone number and address were listed in the Washington metropolitan telephone book, in Alexandria.

Baumann rented a car, a black Ford Mustang, from Hertz, using one of the false U.S. driver’s licenses, this one belonging to a Connecticut driver named Carl Fournier. Then he made the short drive to Alexandria and located 3425 Potomac Drive, a contemporary brick ranch fronted in weathered shingles.

Passing by at moderate speed, he saw that the front lawn was an immaculate bottle-green carpet, a veritable putting green. The only car in the recently blacktopped driveway was a hunter-green Jeep Grand Cherokee, Limited Edition, of recent vintage. The family car.

He returned to Washington and spent the day making various purchases at an electronics shop, a pet shop, and a sporting-goods store. He rose early the next morning and was in Alexandria by about five o’clock.

It was still dark, the sky streaked faintly with pink traces of the rising sun. A second car was now in the driveway, next to the Jeep: a metallic-blue late-model Oldsmobile. No lights were on in the house yet.

Baumann did not slow the car as he passed. The neighborhood was upper-middle-class, and a car that slowed or stopped would be noticed. Neighbors here, like neighbors everywhere, could be counted on not to mind their own business. They eavesdropped on domestic quarrels, noticed new cars, watched yard work (approvingly or not). The houses were set far apart; property lines were neatly marked by tall picket fences or short split-log ones, but there was little privacy. There would always be an early riser next door or across the broad suburban street, peering out as he or she arose.

He parked the car a few blocks away in the mostly deserted lot of a Mobil station and walked back to Perry Taylor’s house. He was wearing a sporty cardigan sweater, a pair of Dockers khaki pants, new white Nikes. He belonged.

In one hand was a bright-red dog’s leash, which jingled as he walked; in the other was an aluminum device the pet shop called a “Pooper-Scooper,” used to clean up after your dog. He whistled low as he approached the house, softly calling: “Tiger! Come on, boy! Come on back, Tiger!”

As he walked up Taylor’s driveway, he saw with relief that the house was still dark. He continued to call out quietly, looking back and forth across the immaculate lawn for his errant pet. Finally he came up behind the Oldsmobile and quickly knelt down.

If Taylor or a neighbor chanced to catch him there, in this position, he had a ready excuse. Still, his heart thudded rapidly. Taylor was an FBI man involved in counterterrorism and had to be cautious.

In a few seconds, he slipped a tiny, rectangular object, a flat metal box no bigger than an inch a side, under the rear bumper of the Olds. The powerful magnet locked on instantly.

“Where are you, Tiger, old boy?” he called out in a stage whisper as he got to his feet.

There was some information he wanted to get from this car, but it would require him to switch on his Maglite. The pencil flashlight’s beam was small but powerful, not worth the risk.

A light went on in a second-story window next door. Baumann casually strolled down the driveway, shrugging his shoulders and shaking his head in resignation, for the sake of the neighbor who, he assumed, was watching him.

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

The finest houses in all of Amsterdam are located on the Herengracht canal, in a long row of facades built in varying stunning styles and known as the Golden Bend.

One of the grandest of the houses, built in Louis XIV style, with a double staircase running through its magnificent entrance and frescoed ceilings, belonged to an American man in his early forties who had married an extremely wealthy Dutch woman and ran her family’s banking concern.

Early in the morning, the telephone rang in the man’s enormous, light-filled master bedroom, waking both the American and his beautiful blond wife. The man picked up the handset, listened, said a few words, and then hung up.

He began weeping.

“What is it?” his wife asked.

“It’s Jason,” he replied. “He’s dying.”