Red Right Hand

6.

THE HEELS OF Kathryn O’Brien’s sandals clacked against the polished tile floor as she strode purposefully across the bustling lobby. Her capri-length chinos and sleeveless blouse looked out of place in a building dominated by men in somber business suits, but the crowd parted deferentially around her nonetheless. Thompson-who felt woefully underdressed in shorts and a V-neck T-shirt-wasn’t sure whether that was because they recognized O’Brien or because her every movement exuded authority, but either way, it was something to see.

The FBI’s New Haven, Connecticut, field office was a modern red-brick building occupying a full city block a short walk from Yale’s campus. It was indistinguishable from most office buildings in the area but for the fact that it was set back from the road and encircled by a fence of galvanized steel painted black to look like wrought iron. Small, unobtrusive NO TRESPASSING signs were posted here and there along the fence, and all entrances, automotive and pedestrian, were gated. The building’s clean lines and manicured lawn lent the property a serene air. Inside-today, at least-the mood was anything but.

At forty miles away from Thompson’s parents’ house, the New Haven field office was the nearest FBI facility in the area. Thompson and O’Brien had made it there in under half an hour. In the car, Thompson tried to apologize for her dad’s harsh reaction to their visit. O’Brien shrugged it off-said it wasn’t fair to hold Thompson responsible for what her father thought-but Thompson could tell that it bothered her.

When they reached the front desk, O’Brien said, “What’s the situation?”

“Ma’am?” The kid behind the desk was wide-eyed, overwhelmed.

“The situation. I’ll need a briefing, the sooner the better.” O’Brien noted his confusion. “Someone told you I was coming, right?”

“Uh…” It was clear he had no idea what was going on. Thompson felt a pang of sympathy for him. He was a baby agent thrown into the deep end, and she remembered all too well what that felt like.

“Director O’Brien!” A forty-something black man in a polo shirt and khaki shorts trotted over to them, tennis shoes squeaking, and stuck out his hand. “Ty Russell-special agent in charge of the New Haven field office.”

The agent behind the front desk blanched when he realized the woman standing before him was the ranking officer on-site, and he shrunk a little in his seat.

“Good to meet you, Ty. Please, call me Kathryn. This is Charlie Thompson. She’s with me.”

Russell’s handshake was firm and cool. “Sorry about the mix-up here,” he said to O’Brien. “It’s not every day we get a visit from the head of CID. And things have been a little nuts this afternoon, as you might imagine. I got here only ten minutes ago myself-I was at my niece’s birthday party when I heard.”

“What can you tell me about what happened?”

Russell looked pained. “Not much more than what the news is carrying, I’m afraid. I haven’t been briefed yet, so I can’t even say for sure whether the explosion was intentional, although obviously the Bureau and Homeland Security are proceeding as though it was. I had a conference room set up for you with a secure link to DC, as you requested. I’m sure they can fill in some of the blanks.”

He led them to an elevator and up two floors. The doors slid open to reveal a bullpen crackling with nervous energy. A dozen people on phones, all talking at once. Countless e-mails, texts, and faxes coming in. Every face drawn tight with stress.

“As you can see,” he said, “we’re doing what we can. Sifting through chatter. Liaising with our West Coast offices. But there’s only so much we can do from three thousand miles away. Ah, here we are.”

Russell ushered them into a conference room and closed the door behind him. A large cherry-laminate table dominated the room. Faux leather office chairs surrounded it. An equipment tech ran wires from one of two laptops to the flat-screen television on the wall. “Dan Nakamura, meet Assistant Director Kathryn O’Brien and, uh, Charlie Thompson. Dan will be assisting you with anything you need.”

“Were you able to get in touch with anybody from NSB?” O’Brien asked.

“Yes, ma’am,” Nakamura replied. “Special Agent Sarah Klingenberg is waiting on me to dial in as we speak.”

“Then, please, don’t let me stop you.”

Nakamura got to work while O’Brien remote-desktopped into her Bureau computer.

“You know this Klingenberg?” she asked Thompson under her breath.

“A bit,” Thompson replied. “We were at Quantico together. She’s a bit of a striver, always looking toward the next rung on the ladder. It’s served her well, I hear-word is, she’s become Osterman’s go-to gal.” James Osterman was the assistant director in charge of the FBI’s Counterterrorism Division. “But she’s a solid agent, and her heart’s in the right place. Honestly, we could do worse.”

O’Brien nodded. “Good,” she said. “The last thing we need right now is for this to devolve into a pissing contest.”

O’Brien-like Osterman-was an assistant director, though she was in charge of the Bureau’s Criminal Investigative Division, or CID. The CID fell under the Criminal, Cyber, Response, and Services Branch, or CCRSB, and was responsible for policing everything from violent crime to major thefts. The Counterterrorism Division fell under the National Security Branch, or NSB. The NSB was founded in 2005 in response to a presidential directive to consolidate the counterterrorism, counterintelligence, weapons of mass destruction, and intelligence resources of the Bureau under a single senior Bureau official, and most of its resources were siphoned directly from the CID. They lost a lot of good agents and over a quarter of their budget in the restructuring and had been playing second fiddle ever since. The result was an intra-agency rivalry as heated as it was counterproductive.

Thompson fished a pair of earbuds from her purse and plugged them into her loaner laptop. She placed one earbud in and let the other dangle. Then she opened an array of tabs in the laptop’s browser: CNN, NPR, the San Francisco Chronicle, the LA Times, Twitter. Counterterrorism wasn’t Thompson’s bailiwick any more than it was O’Brien’s-Thompson worked for the FBI’s Organized Crime Section, which fell under the umbrella of the CID-but she knew the Bureau well enough to realize O’Brien’s official briefing would be sanitized and out-of-date. She wanted to get a sense of what was going on in real time.

The television at the head of the room came to life, displaying a Windows desktop and a buffering chat window. Nakamura gave O’Brien a wireless keyboard and mouse. “You should be good to go,” he said.

“You’re not staying?” O’Brien asked.

Thompson smiled. O’Brien was something of a technophobe. She couldn’t even work the volume on their television once they’d routed it through Thompson’s receiver.

“Pretty sure this conversation’s above my clearance level,” he replied.

As the door closed behind him, the chat window glitched, displaying horizontal rainbow stripes, and then a woman appeared on the screen, her blond hair pulled through the back of her FBI ball cap.

“Special Agent Klingenberg? This is AD O’Brien, can you hear me?”

A brief delay, during which O’Brien’s voice echoed back at her, and then Klingenberg nodded. “Yes, ma’am. I’ve been told to bring you up to speed. How much do you know so far?”

“Assume I know nothing.”

“Copy that. At a little after noon Pacific time, a tugboat collided with the Golden Gate’s south support tower and exploded. Given the size of the blast, it’s unlikely it was accidental. The bridge is still standing, thank God, but several of the support cables have snapped. Portions of the bridge are canting dangerously, and the roadway is impassable. First responders are coordinating with FEMA and the Army Corps of Engineers to figure out a plan of action to evacuate the bridge. It’s unclear how badly the structural integrity has been compromised or how many casualties were incurred.”

“Do we know how many people were on the bridge at the time of the blast?”

“No. We’re still waiting on the data from the tollbooths. Early DOT estimates put the number of cars on the bridge at the time of the explosion at anywhere between four and eight hundred, but again, that’s cars, not people. And those estimates count the bridge’s full span-one point seven miles of roadway, six lanes wide. Most people on the bridge were well outside the blast radius, but the ensuing panic caused a pile-up north of the crash when they tried to flee.”

“And the investigation?”

“We’re still in the early stages, ma’am. And the nature of the incident has made collection of physical evidence impossible thus far. But the fact that the bridge is a major landmark works to our advantage. Analysis of cell-phone pictures uploaded to social media just prior to the blast indicates the tugboat’s markings were painted over, which suggests whoever did this might’ve stolen it or at least wanted to obscure its point of origin. The bay below the bridge is still on fire, as I’m sure you’ve seen from the news coverage. U.S. Park Police are locking down the primary scene, triaging the wounded, and detaining witnesses for questioning.”

“U.S. Park Police?”

“Yeah. The bridge’s southern span cuts through the Presidio, which falls under their jurisdiction.”

“Ah. Of course. What about water traffic?”

“All commercial and recreational boating in the area has been suspended, and vessels already on the water have been instructed to drop anchor until the Coast Guard can inspect them and clear them to dock. The San Francisco field office is coordinating with local PD and Homeland Security to search every inch of the waterfront to determine where the tugboat came from and who was piloting it. We’re talking hundreds of vessels and nearly eight miles of waterfront, though, so it’s going to take some time. I’ll be wheels-up soon to oversee the effort-although I’m going to have to hitch a ride on a military flight, because commercial air, rail, and bus transportation to and from the Bay Area is on lockdown.”

“Has anybody taken credit yet?”

“Yeah. The usual suspects, mostly-with one notable exception.”

“Yeah? Who?”

“A group calling themselves the True Islamic Caliphate. They released a detailed statement within seconds of the blast, which sets them apart from the rest of the nut brigade.”

“Who are these guys? I’ve never heard of them.”

“Join the club. The truth is, they seemed like small potatoes until today, with little influence outside their native Syria. State tells me the TIC has historically been more a militia than a terror group; until today, their primary focus was on overthrowing the Assad regime. We’re still trying to determine how-or even if-they could’ve pulled this off.”

“Was their statement written or video?”

“Video. Grainy, indoors, a dirty sheet as a backdrop. In English, although it’s clear the man reading it-who we’re working to identify-is not a native speaker. They e-mailed it to all the major news outlets as well as the White House. I’m told they tried to put it up on YouTube shortly thereafter, but by then the administration had already been in contact with Google, who owns YouTube, and they blocked its upload.”

“I wonder what that little favor cost the president,” O’Brien mused aloud. “What did the statement say?”

“The bulk of it was pretty boilerplate-your basic ‘Death to America!’ type stuff. But they specifically referenced a tugboat striking the southern tower of the bridge. Since the time stamp on the e-mail indicates it was sent less than a minute after the explosion, we’re taking it seriously.”

“As well you should. How come it hasn’t hit the airwaves yet?”

Klingenberg hesitated. “The video…included threats of further violence. Said the attack on the Golden Gate is just the beginning. We’ve asked the press to sit on it until we can confirm their involvement so it doesn’t cause undue panic. It’s anybody’s guess how long the embargo’s going to hold.”

“Anything CID can do to help? We’re happy to pitch in wherever we’re needed.”

“Thank you. I’ll convey that to my AD and get back to you.” Then her mask slipped for a moment, and O’Brien caught a glimpse of the impossible strain she was under. “Between you and me, ma’am, San Francisco is a lawless mess right now. The city’s locked down. Its citizens are panicking. The police are overwhelmed. Several businesses that serve the Muslim community have been vandalized already. If the video leaks, it’s going to get a whole lot worse. Anything your people can do to keep the peace would be appreciated.”

“We’ll do what we can.”

O’Brien signed off and closed the window. Then she heaved a sigh and turned her attention to Thompson. “That went better than expected,” she said. “Do the talking heads have anything interesting to say?”

“Nah,” Thompson said. “Facts are thin on the ground, so they’re mostly in the bullshit scaremongering phase. I swear, it’s like they-”

Thompson’s expression changed. She put a finger to the earbud she was wearing. “Hang on,” she said. “CNN’s breaking in with something. They claim they’ve got video.”

“Of the TIC taking credit?”

“No, of the attack itself.”

Thompson unplugged her headphones, and the laptop’s tinny speakers cut in. “…if legitimate, this home movie-which was uploaded only minutes ago and has since gone viral-appears to show the moment of impact. We’re presenting it unedited in its entirety. Obviously, its content may be unsuitable for some viewers.”

The screen went black. Then there was the sound of wind and rustling followed by shaky cell-phone footage of a dirt footpath lined with low, dry scrub.

An old man’s face appeared-blurry, but oddly familiar, Thompson thought, although she couldn’t place him-and immediately filled the screen. He had one eye closed, like he was peering through the viewfinder of a camera. His open eye was icy blue.

“Are we all in the shot?” came the faint voice of a man from off camera.

“I dunno,” the old man replied-too loud, thanks to his proximity to the microphone. “I can’t see shit.”

A child giggled. “I think you’re holding it backward,” said the man off camera.

“What? Oh, hell.” The old man turned the phone around. A handsome family-mother, father, and three children ranging in age from baby to teenager-swung into view at the north edge of the trail. The Golden Gate Bridge was so close, it loomed impossibly tall behind them. A tugboat chugged across the bay toward the south tower. From this distance, its progress seemed unhurried, lackadaisical. With foreknowledge of what was to come, the cheery banality of the scene took on a perverse air. Thompson felt like she was watching a snuff film, or a car crash in slow motion. “There you are. Wait-does that mean I’m on your video now?”

“Don’t worry-we can cut that bit when we get home. Ready, guys?”

His wife and children muttered noncommittally.

“Three…two…one…”

The image jerked slightly as the tugboat hit, as if the old man had realized at the last second what was happening and recoiled. The screen went white, then tumbled end over end in a blur of sky and fire and dirt.

When the CNN anchor reappeared, Thompson rewound the feed and played it again. Then O’Brien called Nakamura back in and had him put it up on the big screen.

They watched it through a second time, people from the bullpen drifting through the open conference-room door to watch, their faces slack with horror. When it finished, O’Brien said, “Is it possible to watch it frame by frame?”

“Sure,” Nakamura replied. He dragged the video’s progress bar back to the beginning and began advancing manually. “This is gonna take forever,” he said. “You want me to skip ahead?”

“Yes,” said O’Brien, but at the same time, Thompson shouted, “No!”

Everybody in the room looked at her. Thompson felt her face go red. Her heart sped up like she’d just mainlined a double espresso. The physical reactions were due not to embarrassment but the thrill of discovery.

“Back it up a bit,” she said. “One frame at a time, just like you were doing before.”

Nakamura complied.

“Slower,” she instructed. “Slower. There!”

In the frame Nakamura’d stopped on, the old man’s face was plainly visible. He was rawboned and deeply lined. His pale blue eyes glinted in the sunlight. O’Brien looked at him, then at Thompson, who was clearly impatient for her to see what she had seen.

When O’Brien looked at the screen again, it clicked.

“Jesus Christ,” she said. “It can’t be.”

“It is,” Thompson insisted. “I’d know him anywhere.”

“Who is he?” asked SAIC Russell, who’d come in while the video was playing.

“That,” Thompson said, “is Frank Segreti.”