The Enemy Within

CHAPTER 11 DETONATION

The National Press Club was located in a nondescript, almost seedy, concrete office building on Fourteenth Street, right in the heart of Washington, D.C. Typical drab 1940s architecture, the National Press Office building reflected the age of the organisation, but only hinted at its power.

Although technically only a professional organisation for journalists, the press club was much more. Its members included the cream of the national and even international media. Their reporting could help make or break political careers, and no self-respecting political figure could pass up the opportunity to bring his or her message before such an influential body.

Since its founding in 1908, presidents had sometimes used the organization’s forum to announce major new policies and programs. Foreign heads of state had argued their sides in international disputes. Interest group leaders of all stripes and persuasions had earnestly proclaimed their manifestos from its dais. In fact, over the years, the list of National Press Club guests had become so august that simply being invited to speak there was now a newsworthy event in and of itself.

The Reverend Walter Steele had addressed the National Press Club twice before. His first appearance, eleven years before, had come shortly after his election as the leader of one of the nation’s leading black civil rights organisations. His speech, labeled “visionary” by those in attendance and endlessly replayed on the nation’s television screens and over the radio airwaves, had firmly established him as a major player on the American political scene. His second oration, six years later, had been sharply critical of the then administration’s civil rights record further cementing his reputation as spellbinding firebrand, one with political ambitions of his own.

Since then, he had appeared on news programs, talk shows, and campaign platforms across the country, eloquently pushing a range of programs and proposals for everything from urban renewal to radical shifts in American foreign policy. He was a man of influence. A man who inspired blind devotion in some and blind hatred in others.

And now Walter Steele had asked to be “invited” to speak at a National Press Club luncheon. The rumors sweeping the capital’s cocktail circuit said he planned to announce a bid for his party’s presidential nomination and failing that, he would announce backup plans to run as a third-party candidate. Political observers ranked him as a viable contender one capable of siphoning away several million votes from an administration that had only narrowly squeaked into office.

Preparations for the Reverend Steele’s visit began that morning.

At ten o’clock Sefer Halovic crossed Fourteenth Street with the light and ambled into the National Press Office building. He was dressed casually in jeans and a longsleeved flannel shirt, with only a bright green, reversible windbreaker as protection against the cold, blustery autumn day. He listed slightly under the weight of his equipment a full load of cabling and electronics gear. Black lettering spelled out “ECNS” across the back of the jacket. The same logo was repeated in smaller letters across the windbreaker’s upper right front, with the name “Krieger” printed underneath. The name matched the one on the press pass clipped to his shirt pocket.

Obtaining the pass had been child’s play. With the explosion in cable channels both in the United States and overseas, hundreds of reporters and television and radio technicians flooded the Washington, D.C., area especially right before any scheduled event that might generate headlines and airtime. And, politically correct or not, journalism was still a hard-drinking profession. Halovic smiled inside. Last night, it had taken Yassine only seconds to separate a beer-laden cameraman from his pass inside the noisy, jam-packed confines of a hotel bar. The young Palestinian scout’s fingers were deft the by-product of a boyhood spent living hand to-mouth in southern Lebanon refugee camps.

There should also be little risk in using the stolen pass. The cameraman might have reported his credential missing, but that would scarcely raise a serious official stir. Too many IDs were already adrift in this city of badges and cards for the police to zero in on one more among the missing. In any event, the pass now bore little resemblance to its original appearance thanks to a skilled forger on his special action team. It had been carefully doctored to show his new alias. A Polaroid photo displayed his new appearance. Barring close scrutiny by unusually suspicious security personnel, the alteration should not be noticed.

To change his looks, Halovic had dyed his blond hair a light brown and let his mustache grow out for a few days. He also wore a pair of tinted, blackframe glasses that hid his eyes.

Still, the Bosnian didn’t believe in taking unnecessary chances. That was why he had waited so long to enter the press club building and ride its small elevator up to the third floor. With less than two hours to go before the day’s luncheon, the corridors should be comfortably crowded. He followed several other technicians out of the elevator. Like him, they were draped in coils of cable and weighed down by tripods and other equipment.

As he had hoped, the building’s third floor looked even busier than usual. This was Halovic’s second visit to the press club. The first had come more than three weeks before, shortly after he and his team received General Taleh’s go code and began making the final scouting trips laid out in his operational plan.

The Bosnian joined the bustling crowds moving slowly through the lobby across a floor of heavily veined, polished tan marble. To his left was the Members Bar, dark-paneled and comfortable, with windows that overlooked the street. Even at this hour it was smoke-filled and noisy, already packed with reporters swapping drinks and stories.

He drifted right, heading for the entrance to the dining room.

A table blocked most of the entrance and a man in a suit sat behind it, checking badges. Suppressing a moment’s nervousness, Halovic joined the short line waiting to pass through the barrier. Intellectually, he knew that the odds were in his favor. Since the Reverend Steele was not yet an announced presidential candidate of any sort, the hard-faced men of the U.S. Secret Service were not here in great numbers. Certainly, the man behind the table seemed more a functionary than a watchdog.

He shuffled forward and, without unclipping it from his shirt, turned his press pass to face the checker. He was careful not to make eye contact. The man glanced up, focused on the picture for barely a second, then waved him through with a bored nod.

Hiding his sudden surge of relief, Halovic shouldered his gear and trudged down a short hallway into the main dining room. He had crossed the wire without tripping any alarms.

The dining hall itself was not as large as he had expected. While it was not shabby, it had a low ceiling and wasn’t nearly as ornate as the cavernous meeting rooms maintained by the area’s better hotels. Speakers appearing before the National Press Club were interested in exposure, not in decor. And the members themselves preferred to invest their limited resources in items closer to their hearts than fine furnishings, china, and silverware. Apparently, they reserved most of their funds for keeping the club bar well stocked.

Halovic briefly paused in the doorway to get his bearings. Toward the rear of the room, technicians swarmed over a tangle of cameras, video monitors, and boxes full of electronics gear. Waiters moved briskly among the round tables arrayed before a long head table, laying out white linen tablecloths and place settings. Everyone in view seemed busy. By 11:30 the room had to be ready for two hundred of Washington’s movers and shakers: working reporters, congressmen, administration officials, and influential lawyers and lobbyists.

He checked his own watch: 10:17 A.M. More than enough time. Sidling through the crowd in the rear, he studied the room layout with greater care. As expected, television cameras lined the back wall, stationed on an elevated platform so they had a clear shot of the head table and speaker’s podium. The floor underneath the platform was littered with dark-colored cables and brightly colored boxes that were labeled “CBS,” “CNN,” and a host of other networks, both large and — small. Behind the camera platform was a ten-foot-wide area where technicians crouched over video recorders and miniature TV monitors. Wearing headphones and mikes, they spoke constantly to their opposite numbers in other cities, fiddling with the connections and praying their satellite uplinks wouldn’t fritz just before they went live.

Halovic wended his way through the muttering crowds to a relatively clear spot and brought out his own gear. The VCR came first, and he found a power strip with an open socket. He was rewarded with a bright green power light. Next came several grey metal junction boxes and black cabling. Hooking one end of a cable to the VCR, he carefully screwed the jack in, then payed the cable out, walking toward the aisle in the center of the room.

Out of consideration for the luncheon guests and their feet, all of the electrical cables to the podium were being kept to one side of the center aisle, and Halovic fitted his own into the midst of the thick bundle. Almost immediately, he came to the end of the first twenty-foot segment. Most video cable came in longer lengths, but the Bosnian was ready with a junction box. The size and shape of a small shoe box, it was labeled “European Cable News Service” in neat white letters. There were jacks on all four sides. He connected the first piece of cable to one of the narrow ends and then unwound a second length before hooking it into the other side. He was careful to look for another green power light before continuing.

The next twenty feet of cable brought him halfway up the room. He stopped and attached a second junction box, identical to the first. He could feel his nerves twitching, sending out warning signals. Although he knew the room was swarming with technicians, he felt certain every eye was on him. He surreptitiously scanned the room, determined to bury his irrational fears. No one was watching. There was even another network engineer coming up behind him laying more wire.

When he reached the open-backed speaker’s podium with its nest of microphones, Halovic strung his cable around the edge and inside it. After a short pause to consider his options, he placed a third junction box inside the podium itself Two more segments led out from there to two more junction boxes one under each of the head table sections closest to the podium. More green power lights glowed.

In all of the confusion as technicians from more than a dozen competing news organisations worked frantically to set up their own equipment, nobody thought to ask Halovic why ECNS needed to wire up so much of the room.

Moving methodically now and with greater confidence, the Bosnian returned to the media area at the rear of the dining room, inspecting all the connections on the way. The boxes were in series, but he felt compelled to check and double-check his work. He would not get a second chance at this if something went wrong.

He scrambled onto the far end of the platform and began setting up a video camera on a collapsible tripod. It was a smaller camera and not as sophisticated as those of the other networks, but ECNS was supposed to be a new service one based in Eastern Europe. They’d only recently established themselves in the United States and funds were still short. Nobody asked for an explanation, but Halovic wanted his cover story ready if anyone did.

Another length of cable connected the camera to the VCR. He checked the power light again. He didn’t bother checking the picture.

By the time Halovic finished, it was close to eleven o’clock. He stepped out into the lobby and stood in an out-of the-way corner, watching people come and go through narrowed eyes while he pretended to flip through a newspaper he’d bought at the nearest Metro station. He felt alone and increasingly secure. The point of maximum danger was behind him. His greatest fear during the setup had not been discovery by the minimal security forces present, but a simple encounter with another technician. He had studied the television equipment and media jargon as much as possible, but a professional would have spotted him as a phony in a heartbeat.

At about 11:20 A.M. Halovic looked up from the classified ads. Men and women in business attire were flowing past him, some talking, some laughing. The man at the table took their names and checked them off on a list. According to the schedule the Bosnian had memorised, the luncheon would begin at 11:30, with Steele’s speech and a question-and-answer session slated to begin at noon. The Bosnian buried his head in the paper again, waiting.

At 11:40 the man at the table counted up the names, nodded to himself, and turned the table so that it was tight up against the side of the entrance to the dining room. He left, and a few minutes later, a young woman walked up and placed several stacks of paper on the table. Copies of Steele’s oration, Halovic realized. The reverend evidently wanted to make sure his words were remembered and widely aired. Well, the Bosnian thought coldly, he could be sure of that.

He pushed off the wall and strolled back inside the dining room. Every chair around every table was filled, and the buzz of conversation and the clatter and clink of glasses and silverware were startlingly loud. He knelt, checked his VCR, and saw that all the junction boxes and the camera responded to a test signal. Good.

With a polite nod to the other cameramen closest to him, Halovic stepped up onto the media platform and manned his own minicam. He peered into the small viewfinder and swept the lens over the section of head table to the right of the speaker’s podium. Four men and two women sat there, but none of them were Steele. He panned left. Ah, there.

The Reverend Walter Steele was a tall black man in his late forties. His hair, though still untouched by gray, had receded slightly from his temples. He was dressed in a well tailored, dark grey suit, and a dazzling black, red, and green tie. As if the colorful tie were not bold enough, he had a piece of orange-striped kente cloth draped over his shoulders.

Halovic waited patiently, intent on the scene in front of him. Steele chatted with those closest to him all older, distinguished-looking men. The Bosnian recognized one as a senior member of the Congressional Black Caucus. Another headed the Washington bureau of one of America’s leading television networks.

He glanced down. His watch showed 12:04 P.M. One of the men at the head table pushed away his wineglass, stood up, and made his way to the microphones. The room quieted.

“Ladies and gentlemen, we’re honored this afternoon to have as our speaker the Reverend Walter Steele. He is a man whose many accomplishments are so well known that…”

Taking care not to disturb the camera, Halovic stepped back off the platform and walked quietly over to his VCR. The technicians and cameramen around him spoke in hushed tones now, respectful of the speaker but intent on their own business. He pressed a button on the VCR and saw a new row of green lights appear. The junction boxes were armed.

Satisfied, Halovic returned to the camera just as Steele stood up and took his place behind the podium. He peered through the viewfinder again. The image was a little off center, but the Bosnian ignored the picture.

Instead, he pressed the record and the focus buttons simultaneously. A flashing red dot appeared on the viewfinder image. A thin, ugly smile crossed his face and then vanished without a trace.

Without pausing, Halovic turned, stepped off the platform, and walked briskly out into the lobby. Ignoring the elevator, he took the stairwell down. As he trotted down the stairs, he stripped off the green windbreaker and reversed it so that it was a more sedate and less memorable blue. The blackframe glasses went into a spare pocket. He would dispose of both later and in a safer place.

He was outside and crossing Thirteenth Street on his way to the Metro Center station when the National Press Club vaporized in a searing sea of fire and shrapnel.

Each of the junction boxes Halovic had so carefully placed contained two pounds of plastic explosive and hundreds of small nails. The VCR, larger still, held five pounds of explosive. All were linked to a five-minute digital timer accurate to the milk-second. When the timer counted down to zero, the six separate bombs went off in one simultaneous, shattering blast.

Those few who survived said it was as if the air itself had exploded.

Driven by each explosion, fragments sleeted through the crowded dining room at thousands of feet per second, splintering tables, smashing glass and china, and ripping flesh apart. Dozens of men and women were killed instantly. Dozens more were maimed almost beyond recognition.

Caught by the bomb planted less than a foot from his stomach, the Reverend Walter Steele one of the most powerful and prominent black leaders in the United States was literally torn apart. His mangled remains were later identified only by dental records.

The members and guests seated closest to the speaker’s podium and the central aisle were wiped off the earth in the blink of an eye. Only a few, those furthest away, near the walls or corners of the dining room, survived.

They would later recount seeing the center of the room erupt in flame, feeling their lungs fill with choking smoke, and hearing the anguished screams of those who were dying. With shaking voices, they would describe it as a frozen moment of utter terror, of unimaginable horror.

Falls Church, Virginia Helen Gray shifted sleepily under the bedspread, curling up closer to Peter Thorn. Her right hand toyed with the curly hairs on his chest.

She felt his lips brush against her forehead and smiled in lazy contentment.

“You keep doing that with your fingers, lady, and you’ll have to take the dire consequences,” she heard him say in a mock-serious tone.

Helen’s smile widened and she opened her eyes. “Oh, good.” She rolled over on top of him.

She was on leave and Peter had taken the day off work at the Pentagon to spend some time with her. But their plans to tour a museum or two and eat lunch in the city had fallen prey to deeper, more passionate needs. And every hour she spent in his company helped her push away the dark memories of the carnage at Temple Emet.

Her cell phone rang.

“Damn it,” she growled. “Not now!”

Peter chuckled. “Go ahead and answer it, Agent Gray. I’ll stay right here. I promise.”

She poked a finger into his chest. “You’d better, Colonel Thorn. Don’t forget, I’m an officer of the law.” Then she slid out from under the covers and pulled her phone out from the tangle of clothing on his bedroom floor. “Gray.”

“Helen, this is Lang.” The HRT commander sounded strangely shaken. “I hate to disturb you, but I’m afraid your leave’s been canceled. I need you to meet me at Hoover ASAP.” “What’s up?” she demanded.

“Turn on CNN.”

Helen turned toward the television at the foot of Peter’s bed. Reacting to the sudden tension in her voice, he was already up and getting dressed. He saw her urgent gesture and switched the set on.

She gasped as the first pictures filled the screen. Fire trucks and ambulances crowded a city street near the center of Washington, D.C., surrounding a blast-shattered building. A dark haze hung over the site smoke from the still-burning structure.

“Recap what we know so far, at ten minutes after twelve this afternoon, a huge explosion ripped through the National Press Club during a speech by the Reverend Walter Steele, one of the country’s foremost civil rights leaders and a rumored candidate for the presidency. Unconfirmed reports from the scene indicate that Steele and as many as two hundred others were killed in the blast. Among those known to be attending the luncheon were several congressmen and high-ranking administration officials.” The CNN announcer’s voice wavered. “As well as some of the world’s top reporters, including several who work for this network.”

A poor-quality still photo of an American flag emblazoned with a swastika replaced the chaotic street scene. “Police sources have reported that, shortly after the blast, calls were received by the two major D.C. area newspapers claiming responsibility for the attack in the name of the New Aryan Order, a little-known, extreme right-wing group. The callers have been quoted as demanding that ‘the white race in America begin a war of purification.’ ”

The CNN anchorwoman appeared on camera, still clearly shaken. “We will bring you the latest information on this tragedy as it arrives…”

Thorn snapped the television off and Helen turned back to the phone. Lang was still waiting on the line for her. “Jesus Christ, John.”

“Yeah. It’s pretty bad.” The HRT commander fell silent for a few seconds. When he spoke again, his voice was calmer. “How long will it take you to get to D.C., Helen?”

“Forty-five minutes,” she replied, already sorting out her clothes from the pile on the floor.

“Good. The Director is putting together a special task force to investigate this bombing, and I’m putting you and your section on it.”

Helen nodded. The evidence was that this was a terrorist attack. If they could pinpoint the people responsible, whoever headed the task force would need an HRT force under his immediate command to round them up. “Who’s in charge? Not McDowell, I hope.”

The ghost of a smile sounded in Lang’s reply. “No, not McDowell. They’re flying Mike Flynn in from San Francisco.”

Flynn. The name tugged at Helen’s memory. “The guy who investigated the Golden Gate Bridge bomb attack?” “That’s him,” Lang said. “He’ll be here by seven. I want you here to meet him and the rest of the task force. I’ll brief you on the other details in person.”

“Understood.” Helen hit the disconnect button and started throwing on clothes with reckless haste. She could sort out her appearance in one of the women’s washrooms at the Hoover Building later. The most important thing was to get on the road before the highways clogged up for the afternoon rush hour.

Her last sight of Peter Thorn as she hurried out of his town house was his frustrated face. He’d spent his career preparing to hit terrorists overseas and now all the action had shifted to the U.S. out of his jurisdiction and out of his control.