Second Strike

CHAPTER 79

^{WASHINGTON, D.C.,}

^{AUGUST 18, 1:47 P.M. EDT}

At that moment, Garin was doing nothing except continuing his surveillance of the Russian embassy. There were no signs of activity. The sounds of distant sirens had dissipated, but there was an energy, a tension in the air, as police and other government vehicles sped down nearby streets. Clearly, the authorities weren’t sure the threat was over.

Garin was certain there was more to come. No matter how severe the attack had been, the true threat was still within the walls of the Russian embassy. The Butcher had said as much. There was to be a diversionary strike, then the main strike, to be backed up by Bor. Preventing the main strike was out of Garin’s hands. But he found it interesting that there was a backup.

Olivia was the first to discover the backup plan.

Sitting in the SCIF, she was continuing to scan the Hammacher file, but the critical components of the plan had already coalesced in her mind. The plan was aggressive and bold, even hideous.

If Olivia’s conclusions were correct, Russia was about to strike the United States in a way seemingly indifferent to the principle of mutually assured destruction. Mikhailov was taking an enormous gamble, a reckless gamble. Maybe she was wrong, maybe Mikhailov knew something she didn’t, but Olivia believed the gamble was an uncharacteristic mistake by the Russian president, one that would have catastrophic consequences.

Olivia rapidly skimmed through the rest of the text. She found nothing that changed her original conclusion, but she wanted to be sure before she informed Brandt, who was next door, in the White House. For a moment she considered calling Garin with the information, then instantly rejected the thought. She’d seen him operate close-up. He could stop this. But she had no authority to pass on the information without clearance from either her boss or the president himself, even though the president said he had Garin’s back.

Olivia walked quickly out of the room and through the OEOB and the plaza separating the OEOB from the White House.

One down, two to go.

Even if the last two segments of his mission failed, Stepulev believed he’d already accomplished the objective. The bombing at Union Station had exceeded their expectations. Although he had driven clear of Columbus Circle by the time of the blast, the roar of the explosion had been extraordinary and the radio news had already estimated deaths likely would be in the hundreds. An event of that magnitude at a transportation hub in the nation’s capital easily would constitute the “distraction” desired by his superiors.

Stepulev hadn’t, however, anticipated that the bombing would cause Washington traffic to so quickly come to a crawl. He had little experience driving in the city. He’d made several detours around his planned path and determined that dropping off a windbreaker at the second strike point would prolong the mission to the point of jeopardizing the third and most spectacular strike. He would be discovered and interdicted.

So Stepulev proceeded directly to the last strike point. Although he’d been given latitude to change the progression as circumstances dictated, he thought it best to give his superiors notice, so he palmed his cell and hit a preset.

Bor answered. “Congratulations. So far.”

“Traffic congestion is greater than anticipated. As a result I am proceeding to the third strike point. Tell Moscow.”

“I will,” Bor said. “You should know Moscow had calculated you would complete two strikes at most. If you are able to execute the third target it will be an unanticipated bonus.”

“You do not really think that surprises me, do you?”

Bor snorted. “Take care, my friend.”

Before terminating the call, Stepulev noticed the Ford Explorer several car lengths to the rear. He recognized it as the same vehicle he’d seen a few minutes ago, the black man with the goatee driving.

“Prepare yourself, Ziad. You are next. We are being followed, so you will have to exit and get to the point as fast as possible. Remember to keep your hand on the detonator at all times. The White House snipers will be on high alert.”

“I am prepared.” The voice was frightened but determined.

Knox was becoming convinced that the car he was following was not going to meet any reinforcements, and its trajectory was in the general direction of the White House.

Isaac Coe apparently was thinking the same thing. “My vote is sooner rather than later, Congo.”

“That makes it two to nothing. I’m going to overtake them and force them to the curb. Mike said shoot first and forget about the questions, so take out as many as you can. Fire at will.”

Stepulev saw the car behind them increase in speed. He did the same, swerving around slower vehicles ahead of him. As they approached G Street, less than a hundred yards from the Old Executive Office Building, Stepulev pointed at the large gray building.

“I am going to stop up ahead, Ziad. Get out and run as fast as you can past that building and keep going toward the White House. You will see the press corps between that building and the White House. Get as close as you possibly can, just as we rehearsed it. Again, keep your hand on the trigger at all times.”

Ziad’s eyes met Stepulev’s in the rearview mirror and he nodded.

The Russian pulled the steering wheel hard to the left and jumped the curb as pedestrians screamed and scrambled to get out of the way. The vehicle slammed into the steel barriers and Ziad sprang from the rear door of the car toward the OEOB at a full sprint, dodging startled office workers in his path.

Knox slammed on the brakes, stopping near the Renwick Gallery approximately forty yards behind Stepulev’s car. “I’ll cover, Ike. Go after the runner. Fire discipline, but get him.”

Stepulev and the last windbreaker had gotten out of opposite sides of the vehicle, had shot two uniformed Secret Service agents, and were shielding themselves behind their respective car doors. Knox opened the driver’s-side door and dove to the pavement, rolling twice before settling on his stomach in a prone position, his Glock 17 extended before him. He fired four rounds toward Stepulev’s vehicle—two each slamming into the driver’s- and passenger-side doors. Without turning to Coe, he shouted, “Go!” and fired four more rounds, the last two shattering Stepulev’s passenger-side window and pulverizing the last windbreaker’s head.

Coe shot forward, firing a burst of three rounds in the general direction of Stepulev, who was crouched behind the door of the car. Within a few seconds Coe was already past the car and gaining on Ziad, the weight of the vest slowing the suicide bomber considerably. The operator heard a pop as a round zinged past his head from Stepulev’s weapon.

Panicked pedestrians ran in myriad directions, some diving to the pavement. Screams reverberated throughout the plaza as Coe chased the suicide bomber who was running toward the White House.

Coe could hear an exchange of gunfire between Stepulev and Knox behind him. Stepulev glanced behind him and saw that Ziad was in the detonation zone. The Russian pulled his cell phone from his pocket and pressed the key for Bor. “It is done,” he said. Then Stepulev emptied his entire magazine toward Knox and smiled in satisfaction just as two rounds from Knox’s pistol tore through the Russian’s chest and throat.

It was clear Coe would be able to close to no more than thirty yards of the suicide bomber before the latter reached the perimeter of the White House grounds. If the explosives in the bomber’s vest were as powerful as those set off by his compatriot at Union Station, lots of people were going to die in and around the most powerful edifice in the world.

Olivia had emerged from the OEOB moments before two vehicles jumped the curb and havoc ensued. She was caught almost equidistant between the OEOB and the White House, cell phone in one hand and a sheaf of documents in the other. She sank to a defensive crouch as she heard the rounds of gunfire, people screaming, and glass shattering. A man in a white windbreaker ran past from left to right about forty yards in front of her, heading in the direction of the White House. Approximately forty yards behind the windbreaker she saw a man chasing him. Though bewildered, her mind registered that it was Isaac Coe.

She remained frozen in a crouch as Coe sped by in pursuit of the windbreaker, who a second later came to a jarring halt, as if he’d run into an invisible brick wall. A fraction of a second later Olivia heard the sharp crack of the rifle fired by the sniper atop the White House. She saw the windbreaker stagger and spin as a second report sounded, his right hand clutching the front of his jacket.

Before Olivia’s brain realized that the atomized parts of the windbreaker had sprayed over her body, before she recognized that a small metal pellet traveling four hundred feet per second had torn through Isaac Coe’s left biceps, nearly severing his arm from the shoulder, Olivia felt herself being lifted from her defensive crouch by the force of the suicide vest’s massive blast.

The last thought she had before her body was violently deposited on the pavement nearly twenty feet away was that she’d always assumed she’d die on a cold winter’s day, not a hot one in August.