Detective Cross

Chapter 3

The bomb dogs did not appear until 7:59 a.m., delayed by traffic caused by closing the Mall during rush hour. They had twenty-seven minutes to find the device, and Bree was fighting off a panic that threatened to freeze her.

She was in charge. What if something went wrong? What if the device went off?

As quick as the question popped into her mind, Bree squashed it. Breathe. The officers and agents converging on the Mall were outstanding, the best. You’re leading superior people, she thought. Trust them to do their jobs, and advise you well, and you’ll be confident in your decisions.

The Mall was almost empty when handlers released twelve German shepherds at intervals along Constitution Avenue from the west lawn of the Capitol to the Lincoln Memorial. Bree watched the dogs roam into the wind in big loops, noses up, sniffing out scents as their handlers tried to keep pace.

A minute passed and then two. On the radio, bomb squad leaders from the four law enforcement agencies announced their teams’ arrivals at positions along Independence Avenue, now empty save for cruisers with blue lights flashing.

At 8:02, Bree was looking west toward the Capitol when one of the FBI’s shepherds slowed, circled, and then sat by a trash bin along a pathway west of 7th Street, almost directly south of the National Sculpture Museum.

“K-9 Pablo says he’s got a package,” the dog’s handler said over the radio.

Bree closed her eyes. They’d found it with what, twenty-four minutes to spare?

“Back K-9 Pablo off,” Bree said. “Bomb squads move to his location.”

The FBI and Capitol Hill Police bomb squads were closest. Tactical vans raced east along Monroe from 3rd, and west from 15th, stopping a block away from the trash bin at 8:04. They had twenty-two minutes to neutralize the threat.

Agents and officers in full bomb gear piled out of the vans. Two FBI bomb experts walked within fifty yards of the trash can before releasing an Andros Mark V-A1, a four-wheel-drive robot that rolled right up next to it bearing electronic sensors and cameras.

“We have a timed device,” one of the agents said, within seconds. “Repeat, we have a timed device.”

“Evidence of cellular linkage?” another radioed back.

“Negative.”

Special Agent Peggy Denton, the FBI bomb squad commander, called for heavy mats and blankets made of fire-retardant Nomex materials stuffed with sliced-up tire rubber. Four agents and five Capitol Hill police officers carried the mats and blankets toward the trash can.

Bree’s breath caught in her throat when they got within ten feet. If the bomber had a remote trigger on the IED, which was not cell phone driven...

But without hesitation, the bomb team showed exceptional courage. They went to the trash can and laid two bomb mats over it, and then a bomb blanket that draped over the entire can down to the sidewalk. The agents and officers moved back quickly, yanking off their hooded visors, and Bree sighed with relief.

It was 8:11. Fifteen minutes to spare.

“Job well done,” Bree said into the radio, and suddenly felt weak and tired.

She sat down against the wall and closed her eyes, her fingers playing with her wedding ring, an old habit, until she thought to call her husband, Alex. She not only wanted, but needed to hear his voice.

After four rings, she realized that he was probably with a patient.

“Alex Cross,” his voice mail said. “Leave your message at the beep.”

“Hey, baby,” she said, fighting down a surge of emotion. “I’m okay. I was running on the Mall and...”

Her radio squawked. “Command, this is Metro K-9 Handler Krauss. K-9 Rebel has alerted. Exterior trash bin, women’s public restroom immediately southwest of Constitution Gardens Pond.”

“Shit,” Bree said, got to her feet, and ran to the opposite window as she ordered the officer and his dog back. She saw them trotting north toward open ground and heard the sirens of the other two bomb squads rushing to the new site.

Were there more IEDs? Bree wondered. All set to go off at 8:26?

It was 8:18 as the tactical vans skidded to a stop well back from the restroom. If the bomb was timed to go off at 8:26, they had eight minutes. As before, officers and agents in heavy protective gear and visors poured out of the vans.

There was brief radio chatter regarding tactics before Denton said, “Command, I recommend we move straight to the bomb mats and blankets. No time for the robot.”

“No other options?” Bree said.

“We let it blow.”

8:19. Seven minutes.

“Mats and blankets,” Bree said. She now spotted police and news helicopters hovering outside the no-fly zone that covered much of the Mall, and all of the White House grounds to the north.

“Command, we have a Caucasian male in camo gear on the west Mall,” an officer called.

Bree swung the binoculars and spotted him. The man was wearing filthy military desert fatigues, dancing in circles and shouting at the sky, on the lawn north of the Ash Woods. Officers ran toward him, shouting at him to get down.

Bree focused her binoculars on the man. Tall, lanky, bearded, grimy, with matted dark hair and wild eyes, he saw them coming and took off toward the reflecting pool. Before they could catch him he darted through the trees, across a path, and jumped into the pool.

He waded fast toward the center of the pool, heading almost directly toward the bomb squads and the restrooms. The water was well above his knees when he stopped, reached into his pants pocket, and slipped out a Glock pistol.

“Gun!” she barked into the radio. “Repeat, suspect in reflecting pool is armed.”

The police and FBI agents closing on the pool all had their weapons drawn now, shouting at the man to drop his pistol even as the bomb teams approached the restrooms north of the reflecting pool.

The man ignored the warnings. He sat down in the water, which came up to his chest. Holding the Glock overhead, he released the clip, which fell and disappeared below the surface. He ran the action next and ejected the round from the chamber before expertly stripping the weapon down to its components. Every bit of the gun was in pieces and sunk in under thirty seconds.

The officers were in the pool with him now, wading toward him, training their weapons on him, when he flopped back and disappeared into the water.

What the hell is that guy doing? Bree thought. She turned her attention back to the restroom and the first four members of the bomb squad who were close, maybe twelve feet from the second trash can, preparing to lay down the first mat.

She glanced at her watch. 8:23. Three minutes to spare.

She exhaled with relief as the bomb experts lifted the mat over the can — and the IED exploded in a brilliant, fiery red and yellow flash.