The Minchum Script

By

Stephen Muth

FOReWaRD

He never saw it coming. From somewhere behind, a bolting crash of pain shot down the length of his spine from his skull, racing to each of his nerve-endings, causing his toes to curl as his muscles contracted into rigid knots of contortion. His knees buckled as he collapsed to the cold, wet pavement. Nausea overcame his gut, wrenching his abdomen into a frenzied churning of bile and acids, forcing him to gasp for a last breath of air as gravity took grasp of his now limp body. His head bounced hard off the pavement – the impact dulled by a strange numb feeling that crept across his scalp. His peripherals faded quickly into a darkening haze within seconds of striking the hard ground beneath him.

Only seconds ago, he’d been merrily marching to the rhythmic beats of the digitized tunes from his past on his digital MP3 player as he reflected back on the budding relationship he’d made on his trip to Orlando – this was the author. He’d be the one who’d help him get the promotion he’d been so feverishly pursuing all this time.

As his face collided with the grainy pavement’s surface, he felt a second blow across the back of his head, this time he felt it – a slicing feeling quickly followed by a cold, oozing sensation. The blood quickly soaked into his thick brown hair. Absolute panic soaked his insides as he slipped further out of consciousness – feeling as if he was unwillingly falling asleep behind the wheel of a speeding car, unable to control its directional destiny. His neck throbbed one last time before blacking out into an unknown depth of looming darkness.

CHaPTeR 1

Cooper Alexander’s late flight home touched down at 11:39pm on runway 3 and taxied to its tower-designated gate like a creeping giant condor. The large twin General Electric engines whined down as the affable flight crew rose from their seats and shoved opened the cabin doors. He promptly de-boarded, made his way downstairs, collected his checked-in bag from the carousel and headed straight for the blue-line metro platform just outside the terminal’s main luggage claim. A crowd of Chinese school children crossed in front of him – one staring at him in unconscious oblivion as he stumbled past. He smiled. He loved children dearly, often reminding him of his beloved daughter.

The metro rolled into the station within minutes and he climbed on – anxious to see his wife Dorothy. Dozing-off into philosophical daydreams of meaningless thought several times on the jerky rail ride home, he stretched out his cramped legs onto the vacant seats in front of him. They reached across easily as he slid his moderate but impressively proportionate frame down into the tacky orange of his vinyl-covered seat. His wavy, auburn hair fell over his coat collar as he rested his weary head against the shuddering tempered glass of the metro car.

He had a rugged look about him, often catching unsolicited, but neverthe- less appreciated, attention from those of more curvy nature than he – but he carried himself with admirable modesty. His skin wore the genetic gift of a natural bronze and his face showed virtually no signs of aging, accentuating his sharp jaw-line in its stubble-covered texture. He’d just turned forty-two a month ago, but on days such as these, after a long business trip like this one, his body felt more like in its mid-fifties, constantly reminding him through subtle aches and pains of his apparent wear-and-tear. Although a stickler for a regiment of daily exercise, his body handled the exercise better than such long, drawn out conferences and endless air travel. He was anxious to return home for some much needed rest and some much needed time with Dorothy.

The metro rolled into the terminus at Franconia/Springfield and he snapped from his trance and shuffled to his feet, wheeling his carry-on bag off the train in tow. Walking felt great – stretching his tired, cramped legs after being confined to a budget-saving economy seat for two hours next to a slumbering giant of a man whose labored wheezing breaths kept him from ever getting remotely settled in his cramped seat. Such were the perils of cheap, budget-conscious company-paid plane tickets.

The outside ambient temperature was cool, with a weighty dampness hanging in the hushed late-night air. Cooper had just returned back from a four-day conference in Orlando and was now only a block from his Springfield town home, eager to finally crawl onto his own supple pillow-top mattress he loved so dearly – having helped relieve his herniated disk from endless lumbar torment and discomfort.

The narrow paved path leading from the Franconia metro station was faintly illuminated by a series of uniform park lamps and a dim sallow glow from the corporate park across the tracks. It followed the metro rails about a half-mile and led directly into the Oak Ridge residential community where he and his wife rented a modest three story unit a year earlier. For a cool half-mill, plus closing costs of ten percent, they opted to rent until their pockets significantly deepened. The DC area real estate market was solid, pushing property prices to seemingly unaffordable thresholds. A sizeable chunk of money would only afford modest quarters and a handful of traffic in virtually any direction, not to mention a mortgage payment that would make most outsiders cringe. Cooper often thought of his co-workers, opting to take an A.R.M., thinking now it would one day come back to haunt them if the market ever turned. He couldn’t afford to take that risk – not now. The money wasn’t there – not by a long shot. He loved Dorothy dearly, but lately, money had become a wedge between them. His promotion hadn’t come just yet, but he hoped his newfound friend would help him get it soon.

Each time he went away on these trips, he’d always take the metro home from Ronald Reagan National Airport. By walking from the metro, it kept Dorothy from having to pick him up late at night and he quite enjoyed the walk after flying. It wasn’t far and gave him time to get some blood flowing through his stiffened, achy legs. In daylight, the path was quiet – even a pleasant stroll, but late at night it took on a whole new eerie makeup. It had always felt a little exposed, leaving him feeling slightly vulnerable after dark.

CHaPTer 2

Kahlil crouched down, deep into the dark heavy brush of the thick Boxwood branches, awaiting his target to appear before him, anxious for it all to be over. His heavy Timberland boots dug deep notches into the softened soil beneath him with their heavily lugged soles. The yellowish glow from the path’s nearby overhead lamp shone onto the right side of his face, telling him to recoil further back into the sheltered darkness – mimicking a predator’s instinctual prowess as it stalks it’s prey. The air was brisk with a slight bite, but his black leather coat helped fight off the looming shivers while he waited patiently in a dark sheltered silence.

Looking down the path through the thick foliage, he awaited a sign of movement against the heavily shaded background of the distant landscape. He reached out and grasped a hefty stone that lay near his side and held it tightly in his clammy grip. Minutes passed when off in the distance – just where the path came into view – a dark shadow appeared. He leaned forward just enough to see the figure approaching, but then noticed a second smaller shadow waddling beside it. His pulse quickened as his anticipation grew. He watched feverishly as the shadows slowly morphed into a recognizable image now only twenty yard away. It was a man – a man with a dog – not his mark. The photo in his hand bore no resemblance to the man they wanted him to intercept. This man was an older gent of scanty proportions and walked with a slight but noticeable limp. Kahlil calmly shifted back in his stance and observed as the man walked past him, unaware of the imposing threat only feet from him and his pouncing pooch. As he shifted, a twig under his right foot snapped with a sharp crack. He grimaced, hoping to blend into the background. The man stopped in his tracks and turned in Kahlil’s general direction, puzzled by the sudden sound nearby. He froze as the man scanned the area where he hid, holding his breathing to assure absolute stillness. The man shrugged his shoulders and muttered something to his dog and they proceeded on, waving it off as settling undergrowth. Kahlil let out a gusty blow of stale breath from his agitated lungs as the man moved away into the darkened distance.

He looked to his weathered wristwatch as another fifteen minutes passed before he noticed another figure approach from afar. This time he refrained from moving and sat dead still, camouflaged within the shadowy leaves of the underbush. His heart rate leapt into an exacerbated palpitation of feverish proportions – sweat seeped from his pores. It was him – it was his mark. The man’s resemblance to the photo was uncanny. He knew it was time to act.

CHaPTer 3

With his iPod headphones playing a lively shuffled mix of nostalgic songs from the 80’s, he found himself turning occasionally between strides to see if he’d been joined by anyone else on the path. Having the headphones in his ears, he remained cautious and knew he should constantly remain aware of his surroundings while walking alone. It was clear to him that at this time of night, anyone could fall easy prey to a mugging if they didn’t maintain some fragile awareness of what, or who, was around him. Cooper was very cognizant of this and didn’t wish to become a contributing statistic to the already saturated DC crime problem the city had become so well known for. As the inner-city property values climbed, more and more of the crime element had crept to the suburbs and beyond the incessantly congested Capital Beltway.

It feels good to walk, he thought to himself, then began whistling the newest melody from his digital music player as it seeped spirited tunes from the ergonomic bud-style headphones hanging loosely from his ears.

He’d been to these conferences many times before and with each trip grew more leery of the time he spent away from Dorothy. Only six months ago, they’d lost their only daughter, Maggie, in a car accident just days after getting her driver’s license. It was a hit-and-run. She was struck and left unconscious, bleeding profusely from a severe head wound – the result of impacting the windshield of the Civic she’d bought with the money saved from the part-time library job she’d held after school. The angle of the collision had caused her car to roll over into a drainage ditch off Telegraph Road, leaving her suspended from her seatbelt, upside-down, unconscious. She was found an hour later by a passer-by and laid to rest a week later. The police exhausted every investigative angle – every lead they had, but still came up empty-handed on any legitimate suspects, unable to find the other car or its driver.

Maggie was an energetic, vibrant, beautiful young girl and quite the scholar. She’d juggled a schedule of heavy AP classes and a 4.0 gpa while finding fragmented time to express herself as an accomplished cellist in her high school band. Other students gravitated to her like a swarm of bees to fresh fragrant nectar. Her smile was intoxicating. She’d just turned seventeen and gone out with some friends to the local movie theater, taking her new car on her first solo trip out without parental escort, catching a flick before heading home around nine o’clock. As she drove home, she was side-swiped by an oncoming car – sending her car violently pirouetting off the road. Skidding off the pavement, her front wheel caught dirt and flipped her over three times before striking a tree, crushing the car’s chassis like a cheap beer can. Paramedics worked feverishly but were unable to keep her stable as she was flown by helicopter to Fort Myers Trauma Center. Before touching down, she had passed. She’d died of an acute brain hemorrhage – the result of internal bleeding and severe swelling around her brain from the stiff blow to her head.

Dorothy had struggled with their loss ever since, having gone through the many progressive stages of grieving, but was never able to pick up the pieces and move on. She’d lost her job as a teacher at Thomas Edison High three months earlier and had become severely jaded and detached at home – often venting her misguided anger his way. Although it was tough, Cooper knew work was his one way to avoid the aching pain. After taking bereavement time soon after the accident, he found the emotional strain was too intense and returned to work after only a week, escaping any unnecessary quarrels or emotionally catastrophic meltdowns at home. She was better now, but the times had been extremely trying.

The conference was a weekend-long literary circus of promotions, seminars, author-publisher networking and the B.E.A. – Book Expo of America. He opted to skip the expo this time due to a moderate headache, general malaise and an acute lack of interest. Cooper had worked for Anderson Publishing for three years now and had still not gotten the promotion to Account Director he thought he so deserved. Having signed several up-and-coming authors in the last year who’s preliminary book sales had shown significant market strength and positive critique, he still struggled to get the acknowledgement he’d been working so hard for this past year. He wasn’t stupid. He knew that since his daughter’s accident, he had lost some focus – some drive, but he couldn’t help feeling a little skated over the issue.

Just last week he’d been called into Morton’s office to discuss the details of having just signed Elliot Minchum, the best-selling author of The Lybian Prince, Death of a Spy and Agent 12 – all thriller novels with a strong emphasis on anti-American terrorism and the fanatical side of militant Islam. Cooper remembered feeling ambitiously eager upon entering his office. The excitement was quickly squandered once he realized that his boss simply needed copies of the signed contract and wanted to know of any additional demands Minchum had made prior to signing the contract. Authors had a knack for being a handful and Morton knew it all too well. But Minchum seemed different – cautious, but reasonable. He gave Morton all the necessary copies of the contract and then informed him of the only request Minchum had made as a strict condition of his signing with Anderson Publishing. He’d agreed to only three public book-signings through December, after the books release date. Minchum was known for being a bit elusive, even evasive of the public and the media. He’d only participated in one or two public appearances since his popularity had skyrocketed after the release of Agent 12; a novel about twelve CIA special operatives imbedded in the Al Queda training camps in Afghanistan. This request seemed reasonable enough to Cooper and he’d agreed to it on behalf of Anderson Publishing without consulting Morton first.

“I hope you don’t mind”, Cooper said, knowing damn well he did.

Morton only ever acted on behalf of his own best interests, a self-righteous

literary gatekeeper of sorts – always having the last say in what manuscript would

pass through the iron gates of bookdom and which would flounder into the never land of fictional limbo, regardless of any sentiments from the other agents or staff.

Morton knew he had no choice this time, “Mind… not at all. He’s a reclusive little bastard, isn’t he?” replied Morton.

“That he is. But I like him. Genuine, charismatic and easy to get along

with,” Cooper added. “I think we’ve got a quality writer in him and I’m looking forward to what his new manuscript will bring to us and the market.”

Morton got excited, “Is he done yet? Do you have a proof?”

“I’m meeting him tomorrow for lunch,” Cooper continued. “He said he was still finishing up the final touches and would try to get it to me sometime next week.”

“I want that copy as soon as you get it. We’ve gotta make this one happen fast! I hope it’s a good one!” Morton replied.

“Yep. Me too,” Cooper retorted with a hint of sarcasm.

With that, he stood up and walked out of the office. Morton stopped him with a final comment – he always had to have the last word.

“You did good Cooper but don’t get cocky on me now. We still need

another big fish to contend with Charterhouse. They’re too strong and we need to get an edge on ‘em. They’ve stole every other author right out from under our noses and I won’t have it any more,” he said with determination in his voice. Cooper just waived over his shoulder – having heard this speech before – and walked out into the hallway. The business he found himself in was not what he’d expected. He’d imagined a career, immersed in enticing scripts and managing marketing strategies for best-selling authors, but so far, it had been a struggle to reach that level of networking. Morton had given him all local author accounts, which often proved to be a challenge in distribution, marketing and sales in and around the District. Every major bookstore seemed to have a different inventory system, variations in product flow and ordering processes and weak promotional abilities making it hard to drive smaller titles than those of the National Bestsellers lists.

It was almost midnight as Cooper walked around a slight curve in the path. It was a moonless night and the path seemed to disappear into an ethereal darkness between the occasional path lights. It was familiar, but still a little creepy. He yawned hard as he shifted his clammy grip on his carry-on. Devo’s “Whip It” was playing in his ears and lightening his steps as he walked. He remembered enjoying the song a little more when he was a teen, but it still had a certain nostalgic appeal to him.

Looking down upon the path ahead, a dim flickering light began to creep up behind him, casting his faint shadow on the path directly in front of him. He had no idea what it was nor did he spend much time concerning himself with it. But it was getting stronger with each step he took. Still trying not to think much of it, he continued down the path. After a few more steps he looked down again, noticing the light had grown more intense – his shadow now more sharply contrasted against the pavement. His heartbeat accelerated and he quickly swallowed in a nervous tic. Stupid, stupid, he thought. He wanted to kick himself for not having kept track of his surroundings over the course of the last few songs. He refocused on the light as it closed-in on him quickly now. A frantic nervousness set in. He didn’t know whether to act casual – hoping it was just an evening jogger with a flashlight – or to rip the earphones from his ears and spin around to confront the on-coming threat. He looked down at the path again and knew it would be on top of him any second. He swallowed once more; not knowing who it might be or what was about to happen. The anxiousness was now turning to panic. The ground began trembling under his feet, or maybe it was just the surging adrenaline. He wanted to turn around but couldn’t bring himself to do it. Another split-second passed and the light was all over him. His heart raced in his chest and he swallowed one last time. As if time stood still, the metro cars ripped past him. His hair stood on end as he jumped up and almost out of his skin. The headlights on the lead car blurred by in a whoosh of pressure as the rail wheels sparked blue shards of light like indigo sparklers to either side. The rail cars were back-dropped by sharp electrical pulses of light as the train shifted onto a new set of tracks. It passed quickly – still shaking the ground around him.

It took his brain a few seconds to process the sudden information. When it eventually caught up, he gasped for a breath of air and swiftly exhaled in a pant of relief. Feeling his pulse quickly diminishing, an entirely different sensation came over him as he burst into laughter; hardly believing his imagination had gotten the better of him. He’d forgotten about the tracks running alongside the path. He stood hunched over with his hands on his knees laughing at himself, shaking his head.

The trained rolled off into the distance until it rounded the next bend and disappeared into the distance. Another few minutes and he’d be home he thought. He stood up and regained his composure, Devo still playing in his ears. Then he felt it – a sharp, sudden impact on the back of his head. His skull turned hot, then quickly cold and he fell to the ground. Looking up at his attacker, he could only make out a dark, lean silhouette standing over him. The man’s figure blocked the overhead path light behind him, giving his silhouette an iridescent glow against the darkened starlit sky. He couldn’t make out the face before his vision faded quickly into the surrounding darkness.

CHAPTER 4

The tunnel was dark ahead, but he was used to being in such a confined space. It lead about seventy yards ahead, but he could only see the twenty closest to him as his flashlight illuminated the damp, heavily molded aged brick walls of the sewage drain he regularly maintained. He was a sewage worker for the District and had been one for the last fifteen years. The name patch on his uniform read George but was hard to read from the aged staining from years of underground work. He felt at home in these sewers, knowing them like the back of his hand. Every mile was clearly mapped out in his head, making him the designated go-to guy when issues arose at the main office. Just this morning he’d been sent down to find the source of the high levels of nitrate and nitrogen build-ups measured by the surveying team from several manhole covers in the area – usually the cause of organic waste buildup or blockage.

He shuffled down the dark tunnel, keeping his helmet down to avoid knocking it on some low piping above. Water sloshed around his rubber boots beneath him. It was quiet, except for the water. He reached down and dipped a test tube into the blackened water flowing between his knee-high rubber boots.

That’s when he heard them – distant voices coming from the other end of the tunnel. At first he thought it was in his head, but then he heard them again. These were his tunnels. No one would dream of coming down here. He pointed his flashlight down the tunnel – revealing nothing but empty obscurity. He sat still in his spot and listened. Again, voices lofted through the tunnel towards him.

“Who’s there?” he hollered out through the darkness. There was no answer. The voices had gone quiet, leaving the water to break the silence. He sat there for several more minutes listening for the voices, but they’d disappeared. He repositioned himself – shrugging off the odd sounds as tunnel feedback and dipped the test tube back in the murky water.

As he lifted the tube from the water, a shot rang out from the other end of the tunnel. The sound was exaggerated as it reverberated off the dense walls. A small thud knocked against his chest. Pain seared through his ribs. He clenched as the piercing impact hit him – jumping up and falling back into the putrid sewage. The water quickly turned from black to a deep red. A fetid smell of iron suddenly filled the tunnel’s air.

The shooters moved down the tunnel towards his body. They checked it for any sign of life. It had washed away. Wastewater rushed over his face. His mouth was open and completely filled with water. One of them reached down to the body now under the surface and shoved two fingers into the gaping hole in his chest. He felt no pulse and nodded to the other. He pulled out his fingers and washed them off in the flowing murky water.

They turned and headed back down to their original location where the tunnel met with a large locked dam. One of them reached up and pressed a red button on the timing device mounted on the dam wall. Behind it was about a half a pound of plastic explosives. The timer immediately came to life and began counting down on a small digital screen. Twenty-four hours from now their world would come alive.

CHaPTeR 5

Maguire Hall at Georgetown University sat nestled in on the southeast side of its inner city campus. It was a newer, red brick wing added on to the older, more decorative, colonial-style structure of the overcrowded Ryan Hall. Student attendance had climbed throughout the years leading to increased needs for additional housing. The new wings were the solution to a land-poor campus. Standing huddled between two massive oak trees with a large semi-circular driveway arcing up to its main entrance, it had a particularly dominating presence about it.

Inside, the dorm was silent as Kahlil made his way to the third floor and down the hall to his room. The hallway was long and particularly narrow with aged doors on either side, each covered in a plethora of posters, banners and descriptive stickering – giving any visitor a graphic description of the social tendencies of the occupants inside. He slid the key quietly into the lock and turned it gently. The door to his room opened slightly and he entered, closing it swiftly behind him.

It was a small room, with a pair of matching wood-framed single beds on either side. It contained very little décor aside from the arabesque-style drapery hanging by thumbtacks from the far wall. A dilapidated pressboard desk sat to the right of the door on which a small brass antique bankers lamp cast an amber glow from its jade glass shade onto a small pile of spiral-bound student note pads. An equally unkempt chest of drawers on the other side of the room was centered against the wall like a large wooden shrine. The walls were bare and painted an odd, dark shade of eggshell to mask the aging drywall beneath. A small ornate Persian rug lay across the center of the hardwood floor, darkened by years of soiled footsteps as a faint smell of Indian incense lingered in the musty stale air. A flat-screen monitor on the desk illuminated the room with a mix of cast reds and blues from the oscillating screensaver left on most of the night. His roommate was asleep in his bed, his back to the door, facing the wall as an occasional hint of a snore snuck from his nose and half-opened lips.

He was an exchange student from Toulouse, in the Basque region of France, who rarely used the room except at night when he’d catch a generous four or five hour siesta before returning to the library to ponder over the effects of variable taxation on spending habits of the middle class. He came to Georgetown to pursue an American education in business management and socio-economics and spent most of his time at the University library studying or with his newfound American girlfriend, Natalie. His name was Jean-Marc Touchet but went by JT for short. Although a bit of a dry character, he was pleasant enough as a roommate and kept mostly to himself.

Kahlil quietly pulled the ragged wool hat from his head and the black leather coat from his back, throwing them on the still-made empty bed beside him. His hair was dark, curly and glistening with a sheen of fresh sweat. He stood with a feeble frame and moderate shoulders – a young man in his college years but showed significant signs of prolonged stress in his tired weary eyes. Acclimatizing to the American way of life was taking its toll. His sweater lay over his meager chest like a damp rag and his jeans hadn’t been washed in at least two weeks. He crept over to the desk and sat down in front of the computer monitor where he remained motionless for a couple of minutes, recanting the last few tense, wretched hours he’d just been through. Lifting his head, he turned to the monitor and typed in his password and the screen lit up brightly, causing him to squint briefly until his eyes readjusted. The Hotmail account appeared on the screen before him, still up from earlier that evening. He moved the mouse to the New Message icon and clicked on it. After a few seconds, the new email window popped up and he immediately began to type:

Made interception.

Neutralized target.

Unable to locate any manuscript.

I’m sorry.

Kahlil

He slid the mouse across the screen and clicked Send and it was gone. After waiting impatiently for a response that never came, he logged off and swiveled around in the high-back leather desk chair. JT now lay in a new position, but still faced the wall – motionless, but sporadically snoring in wheezy bursts of hindered breathing. Kahlil’s anxiousness was slowly deteriorating and he quickly grew more tired as he fought off a pair of heavy eyelids in an effort to muster some last minute focus.

He sat there wishing he could follow the electronic signal carried through miles of fiber-optic cables to a dish, then to some orbiting satellite, then back down to another dish and through further fiber optics to its recipient on the other end. He didn’t know whom he’d been communicating with over the last few days but curiosity was getting the better of him. The vastness of the Internet enabled their absolute anonymity. He’d received his first email from the unknown sender about a week ago. At first he didn’t respond. The email read:

In need of some assistance.

Will be well compensated.

One night. A couple of hours.

Any interest?

But after a second similar email came in two nights ago, he gave in to inquisitiveness and replied back:

Who are you?

What are talking about?

A reply came back literally within seconds to his astonishment. He opened it and read on.

Who we are is not important.

We came across your information from the chat site last night.

Do you have any interest?

It was an Internet chat-site he visited from time-to-time. More so over the last few weeks. He came across it one night as he searched aimlessly through the web for something he could identify with. The website was rudimentary at best, but caught his attention none-the-less. It seemed to be a chat site where practicing foreign and domestic Islamic fundamentalists would gather to chew the fat. He found some comfort in talking to others about his growing contempt for the American culture – to him it had become soul-less, materialistic and evidently crude. Disgusted over how many Americans possessed a unique and relentless pursuit for massive accumulations of wealth and power with seemingly less concern for values, character and faith. He quickly joined the site upon reading some of the chat discussions, finding solace in the shared words.

The site’s users were sympathetic to anti-capitalist thought, promoting memorization of the suraah – passages from the Koran – and reminding it’s members that the jihad is against all unbelievers and if they did not submit to Allah, they’d all be punished. It was most likely run by young Muslim fanatics with an agenda to spread mistrust, but there was also the lighter side, one in which he felt comfortable discussing and sharing his views. Hesballah, Palestinians, Sunni extremists, even the Taliban and Al-Qaeda typically used these sites as recruiting grounds, appealing to the embittered westernized muslims, drawing them in by identifying with their frustrations. It was a common tactic, which proved to be quite productive.

He was unsure of the source but would occasionally chime in and respond to a comment from another. A month ago, the site had rounded enough support to organize a small demonstration outside the US State Department protesting the current President’s and Administration’s foreign policy, specifically focused on their occupation of Iraq and he had agreed to join them in their endeavor.

When he arrived that day, he found twenty to twenty-five people dressed in Shalas, circling at the base of the front steps, their faces covered in white cloth – only their eyes exposed. They protested for a few hours before dissipating back to their anonymous domiciles where they could avoid confrontation from those of more nationalistic sentiments. They simply displayed hand-held banners, reciting their disapproval of the Administration’s decisions to increase troop counts to a region bound for inevitable civil war. The demonstration was only designed to be a visual statement – nothing more than a passive exhibition of the freedom of expression in front of a government facility. In fact, it was so modest that not even the local news, State Department newsletter or any other media gave it any coverage whatsoever.

Kahlil had dressed as the others, covering his face as much as possible, not wanting his peers at the University to discover his whereabouts through undetermined lines of inconvenient hearsay. The site had become an outlet for him, both through flaccid verbalization and now active manifestation. It had become a secure method of expression, without scrutiny of those around him and with those friendly to this genre of thought.

He’d been raised in Muree – a wealthy high altitude township about fifty miles east of Islamabad, surrounded by beautiful mountains and deep jagged valleys – but had come to the US to attend college under his father’s specific wishes. He’d wanted to stay in Pakistan and attend Allama Iqbal University, being only a few blocks from his home, but his parents insisted his opportunities would be greater if he attended a Western school where professional prospects structured career paths would lend in his favor. He sent out applications to several schools but Georgetown was his father’s primary preference. When the letter of acceptance came back, he reluctantly agreed to go. Two months later Kahlil had boarded a transatlantic flight from Islamabad International Airport destined for Washington, DC’s Dulles International. Within a month thereafter, he was enrolled in his first semester at Georgetown University.

At first, he was easily swept up by the American way of life. It was new, exciting, even intoxicatingly alluring. But as time passed, he could feel the distance between him and his classmates growing to the point where he quickly became the outsider. His ethnicity, cultural lifestyle and background never blended well with his scholastic peers and he quickly began to distance himself from the other students. Their slipshod etiquette was no match to his own – drinking heavily, constantly lusting after women, consistently violating the Holy Day of Friday with loud music and intrusive behavior. It disgusted him more as each day passed. He’d gone so far as to get arrested for assaulting another student who’d been pestering him in the dorm hall a few weeks ago. Their harassment was based purely on his race and faith, calling him derogatory names like camel jockey and rag-head. Not able to control his anger, Kahlil had gotten in the guy’s face and pounded it with a swift left-right combo, breaking his nasal bone in two different places and badly dicing his cheek. The cut bled uncontrollably, making it look like a gruesome murder scene from an offbeat COPS episode. The other students were stunned in shock. The student was hospitalized for two days, badly banged-up and heavily sanctioned on self-esteem. Kahlil’s father had posted his bail from Pakistan and briskly paid the student’s medical bills, but was furious with Kahlil. He still remembered the harsh phone call from his father. He was so upset, it didn’t even sound like him through the receiver – his voice was clearly elevated and angry. He was livid that Kahlil had given in to the antagonism and not controlled his frustrations – sternly reminding him that not all Westerners would be accepting of Muslim ways – not realizing how far progressed Kahlil sentiments had become. He went on to instruct him to be more careful, more restrained in his actions and let Allah handle those who mocked him. He was told to curb his anger and complete his schooling without further incident.

Between classes, studying and his daily salaat, Kahlil grew increasingly bored and began to find solace in a plethora of chat rooms, finally focusing on the Muslim utopianist-based chat-site where he learned of the brotherhood of fundamental Muslim thought through intensive Koran studies and regular daily prayer. He was Pakistani, but his beliefs had grown more conservative, becoming a neo-jihadist. He came to realize this must have been where they’d come across his contact information and email address.

He responded.

What’s the job?

What does it pay?

Again, the response came quickly.

We need you to intercept a man who will be flying in tomorrow night at Reagan National Airport. He will ride the metro to his home in Springfield. He will walk from the metro station to his place of residence in Oak Ridge.

We are looking for someone who can intercept this man, retrieve a manuscript he stole and return it to us. He plans on using this manuscript for his profit at the expense of our Muslim brotherhood. We will pay you $1000.00 for the service upon delivery of the manuscript. Are you willing?

Kahlil’s eyes lit up when he saw the job’s compensation. He could certainly use some cash. He’d been living off microwave meals and near-stale milk for the last week and could use a change to his emaciating diet. His stomach couldn’t take much more of it.

He was still puzzled about why the senders had chosen him specifically, but couldn’t add it all up. What could this manuscript have in it? Who was this man who planned to profit while mocking Islamic fundamental thought, faith and tradition? He looked him up on the Internet and read several summations of his novels and began to feel the same surge of rage he’d felt the night he was arrested weeks ago. The sensation made his blood boil. Violence was not the answer to his problems – nor was it his nature, but if what these men were saying was true, he could play a personal role in stopping him from exercising his selfish intent upon Kahlil’s sole source of self-justification and empowerment.

He responded back.

I’ll do it.

When and where?

A final message came back with details of when and where to be the next night and he took detailed notes.

The next day, he went to class as usual, returned directly back to his room afterwards and took a short nap. He awoke at nightfall to perform his evening salaat, then at 10pm left his dorm room and began his twenty minute walk to the Foggy Bottum metro station a couple of miles southeast of campus. The platform lights began blinking as the railcar rolled into the station, creating a surge of air pressure within the station. He yawned to pop his ears and then boarded the blue line destined for Springfield. The rail car was empty, giving him time to contemplate his upcoming moves. When he reached the final stop on the line at Springfield/Franconia he got off and headed toward the walking path described to him in the final email from his employers. He nervously marched to a point in the path and turned off abruptly, crouching down in the darkness of the bushes and waited. In his hand was a printed photograph of the man he would intercept, sent to him by his contacts. An hour or so had passed when a man matching the photograph walked by him along the path – he recognized him immediately. His heart rate jumped as he stood up and ran from the brush at him just as a metro whizzed by. The man fell after a strong blow to the back of the head with a stone.

Searching his mark’s bag, he found no manuscript, only letters from publishing houses, a few promotional flyers and an iPod. The chromed back panel reflected the overhead light into his eyes as he grabbed it. Feeling anxious and hurried, he zipped up the man’s bags and ran off down the path back to the metro station before he was seen. When he got there, the station gates were locked-up for the night. Forgetting the metro shut down at 11pm on weekdays, he hastily pulled out his cell phone and promptly dialed 411. A voice recording came on asking him for a city and state. He responded with Springfield, Virginia and waited. An operator came on the line and asked him what listing he was looking for. He promptly responded, asking her to connect him to any taxi company as fast as possible. Fifteen minutes passed before his taxi arrived. He climbed in and it was over.

With only the dim light of the desk lamp now illuminating the room, Kahlil knelt down on the small Persian rug, his knees digging into its pile and began a final Salaat. He commenced mumbling the words of the Fatiha – a common prayer to Allah requesting to be led down the right path to righteousness – keeping his voice low to not disturb JT from his sleep. With his knobby, dry knees facing east towards Mecca, he began whispering verses of prayer focusing on nothing but his words and inner thoughts, trying to ease his troubled mind.

After only a few short minutes, he stood up and began to remove the remainder of his clothing, leaving only his boxer shorts and tan socks. Moving away from the pile of clothes on the floor, he reached towards the desk, switching off the lamp. The alarm clock by his bed read 2:00am. He still felt flushed, so he reached across the wood-framed bed and cracked the window above it an inch or two. The tepid night air seeped in slowly over his bare back as he lay down on the lumpy mattress, resting his weary head on the down pillow he’d bought the week before. Tonight’s rendezvous had not gone very well and he couldn’t help feeling a little anxious about not finding the manuscript. What he’d been asked to find was not there and he hoped the news wouldn’t disappoint the others – he needed that money. He recited one last prayer briefly in his head, professing his faith to Allah and closed his blood-shot eyes.

CHaPTeR 6

Cooper woke up with a throbbing headache at the base of his neck. His vision was severely blurred and glassy, only able to make out the hazy forms of those standing in front of him. As his eyes finally cleared, he made out his wife, Dorothy, leaning over him. She tried to hide the concern with a heartening smile as she leaned forward into him – kissing him on the forehead, then brushed the matted, sweat-ridden hair from his slightly swollen forehead. She was a slender woman with a worn face. Bags hung from her eyes and greasy, unkempt shoulder- length blond hair lay across her lean shoulders. Her face was narrow with a slender chinbone. Subtle wrinkles had set in around the outside corners of her eyelids and mouth and her cheekbones had become more pronounced over the last few months. She hadn’t maintained a steady, healthy diet since she’d stopped working – some days barely eating anything as she struggled to let go of Maggie. She wore a face of stress and malcontent and lately made little effort to care for her appearance. But Cooper still saw her beauty, her grace.

They met soon after he’d been discharged from the Army. At first it was a

short four-year deal, but he’d been deployed for a year at the start of his service to Somalia as part of a relief brigade to the UN peacekeeping forces.

At first it seemed like a good idea after graduating from college,

but after being deployed to Tel-Aviv three years later as part of a small protective force sent there to provide security detail to the U.S. Embassy and other western senior diplomats, he quickly knew he wanted out. He even hated the uniforms, but they seemed quite fond of him – constantly sticking to his sweating body under the incessant hot desert sun.

Most of his time was spent as a well-armed, glorified shepherd. But there were occasional hostilities towards their transports from small arms fire most likely from insurgents and independent loyalists who didn’t support America’s cooperation with Israel. Gunfire would suddenly erupt out of nowhere. The source was usually of Palestinian derivation, acting in part with marginally organized groups affiliated with Hezbollah and Hamas. He’d been part of a team covertly tasked to do Intel-driven home raids, attempting to capture the unorganized members of the fanatical factions. Not every raid went smoothly, but Cooper had learned to block those memories from his recent thoughts.

He’d met Dorothy through a mutual acquaintance in the publishing business about eight months after receiving his discharge papers. She’d just finished her first children’s book and he was a newly hired publishing agent for a small printing house in Ithica, NY. Having just completed his Masters in public relations from Cornell University, he was hired on as a signing agent soon thereafter. They met over lunch at an outdoor café near a neighborhood park. It was a balmy spring morning and the fragrant tulips were near full bloom throughout the park. He introduced himself and she returned the handshake and offered her name in greeting, Dorothy Spencer. He’d called her the day after having been introduced to her book by his chief account manager, who felt her idea had promise and was geared to the right child demographic. He asked Cooper to arrange a meeting and talk over the possibilities of going forward with the book and Cooper was energized over the idea of his first account. He needed to get this deal put together to prove he had what it takes to lure in new authors and marketable books.

They’d ordered a light lunch and discussed the logistics of her book and what the financial implications of publishing it would mean to her newfound success. They were getting along quite well, meeting at 11:30am and still in each other’s company after 2pm across the street on a park bench. Any on-looker could have understood their apparent mutual interest simply by observing their body language and buoyant dispositions towards one-another. Cooper had taken quite a liking to her and she seemed to be equally impressed with him.

He found himself omitting major portions of their conversations, distracted by her deep blue eyes and sinuous blond hair. She was gorgeous. He was somewhat shy at first, but her easy-going demeanor quickly brought him out of his shell. She’d dressed for the occasion in a Prada power suit with a knee- length skirt and heels. Her legs were a huge distraction for him – tan and noticeably long and slender. The short skirt pulled half way up her thighs when she sat beside him and he kept reminding himself not to stare. Dorothy had also found it hard to concentrate on his words. He wore a snug fitting polo shirt that made it plainly clear to her that he believed in exercise. His arms were lean and his pecks were unmistakable from beneath his shirt. His hair was clean-cut, his face clean-shaven and he displayed an immense self-confidence without the dreaded arrogance. She was attracted to his humble yet confident nature. She was smitten. They parted ways about 3pm, but both had left with each other’s phone numbers and plans for dinner later that night.

Their reciprocated interests flourished quickly, but they both knew they had to maintain a professional relationship around the office, hiding it from Cooper’s staff. He wanted their new bond to be kept quiet until her book deal was complete and marketed. She agreed entirely, keeping her distance while pushing her book. A year later they were married. Two years after, they moved to Springfield, VA after he received a job offer from Anderson Publishing; one of the premiere publishing houses south of New York City. He accepted the offer and they moved after only a couple of months. The area around Washington, DC was a totally different atmosphere and they found themselves missing Ithica and becoming quickly aware of the ever-present political environment of the nation’s Capital.

www

His head was still pounding, feeling each heartbeat pulsating through the veins on the back of his head. He couldn’t remember ever having a headache quite this bad before. Dorothy was no longer leaning over him, but talking to the doctor.

“Will he be alright, doc?” she asked.

The doctor looked up from his clipboard, “Yes, just fine. He has a mild

concussion and some ephemeral swelling, but nothing to worry about. He should be just fine.” The doctor replied.

“What happened?” Cooper jumped in, now finding himself about his senses. Dorothy refocused on him and moved back to his bedside.

“You were attacked, don’t you remember?”

Cooper shut his eyes for a minute, then opened them again, trying to gain some focus.

“The last thing I remember was being hit in the back of the head and

seeing someone standing over me,” he said. “What happened?”

“We hoped you could tell us that,” a voice said from behind Dorothy.

“Can you remember anything else about that night, anything at all?”

Cooper sat up and looked over Dorothy’s shoulder to see an older gentleman in a tan sports coat and dark blue jeans standing up out of his chair. His hair was peppered and wavy and his skin looked like sun-bleached leather. An unlit cigar hung from beneath his grey mustache but it didn’t keep him from talking. He spoke with a raspy voice and had to have been in his early-fifties.

“Cooper, this is Detective Edwards from the Fairfax County Police

Department. He’s been assigned to your case,” Dorothy interjected.

“Do you know who attacked you, or even what they looked like? Anything at all?” the detective continued.

“No… it all happened so quickly. Just felt something hit me and saw a shadow as I fell – that’s it,” he replied. The doctor moved by his bed and asked to look at the swelling on the back of his head.

“I’ll give you something for the pain and the localized swelling and you

should be okay to go home soon. We’re gonna hang on to you for a few more hours to make sure everything checks out first.”

Cooper laid back down, resting his head on the soft, down pillow the nurse had brought in earlier. Dorothy was now talking to the detective who handed her his card.

“Call me when you get home and he’s feeling a little better. I need any

information he might have on his attacker. Anything at all, and whether or not any of his belongings are missing.”

“Only his iPod”, Dorothy quickly replied.

The detective looked puzzled. After all, if that’s all his attacker had wanted, why had they hit him so hard over the head? In his experience as a street thumper over the years, the behavior didn’t fit the crime. Usually in a mugging, there was a simple threat with a weapon, a demand for what they wanted and a threat to use the weapon if the victim didn’t hand over the items.

“How do you know he had one with him?” he probed curiously.

Dorothy walked over to the bedside and sifted through Cooper’s belongings in a small hospital bag on the feeding table attached to his bed. She pulled out a set of white headphones from the bag and held them up.

“These headphones were found on him… but no iPod,” she said lifting

them into plain sight.

Edwards walked over to where Dorothy stood and took a closer look. He still had a hard time believing that was all they wanted. Being of the baby-boomer generation, maybe he’d underestimated the appeal of digital music players these days to the younger X and Y generations. He pulled out his pocket-sized notepad and flipped it open. Pulling a pen from his blazer’s inside pocket, he jotted down a few notes, then closed it back up quickly and walked over to Cooper’s side. He reached out and shook his hand in a passive, yet appreciative manner and smiled.

“Give me a call when you’re up to it. Anytime,” he told Cooper. “I gave

Dorothy my card.” Then he left the room.

An hour later, Cooper was wheeling down the hall in a rickety wheelchair as Dorothy pushed from behind. The tending nurse as required by hospital rules escorted them. She was a large woman who wore a frown for comfort, but she was harmless.

It was now almost 5am and the sun was beginning to cast a red-orange glow over the eastern horizon outside the front door. He felt significantly better now and was eager to get out of the hospital. His headache had subsided thanks to a strong dose of painkillers the doc had given him within the last hour. A strange disconnected feeling now slowed his neuro-processes and boy – it felt great. They rolled out of the hospital lobby and onto the loading zone driveway. The air was crisply cold – Cooper could see his breath when he exhaled and was amused by it. Dorothy moved around in front of him and said, “Wait here, I’ll go get the car.” He nodded with a quirky smile and she walked out into the parking lot with a giggle at his expression – knowing exactly what he was feeling at that moment. His bandaging around his head made him look like a mental patient and the drugs only emphasized it. She was wearing a pair of jeans he loved on her and enjoyed the view as she strolled away into the parking lot.

Seconds later she pulled up in their midnight blue BMW 540i and got out. The red/orange glow from the sky reflected off the freshly waxed hood of the car, accentuating its Autobahn-inspired lines. Cooper loved the car. He’d grown up always hoping that one day he could afford one and now he had just the model he’d always wanted. Just six months ago, he finally caved and bought it from a friend. It was in perfect condition and he had worked out a great deal on it. It had everything; a sunroof, a brawny V8 engine, a satellite navigation system and a beautiful tan leather interior. Yep, all the toys he could ever want. He drove it everywhere and every time he parked it, he’d do two or three look-backs to admire his slick new toy. It wasn’t the name badge or prestige he sought, but rather the performance and craftsmanship he’d always read about in all the car magazines. It was just the one he’d always wanted. Dorothy often complained that he paid the car more attention than her. He often kidded with her, telling her that the car was the only girlfriend she’d let him keep. They both had beautiful curves, but he’d remind her that hers were considerably more enticing than the car’s.

Dorothy left the car running as she clambered out of the low-lying driver’s seat. She walked up to his wheelchair and helped him up and into the car. The interior of the car still smelled strongly of rich succulent leather despite its age and he loved that smell. They threw a courtesy waive and a smile to the nurse, closed the car door, put the car in drive and pulled away. Cooper reached down to the center console and pushed a button, illuminating three subtle green indicator lights. A few minutes down the road, the heated seats blanketed his back, bottom and legs with soothing warmth and the ride home went pleasantly quickly as he melted into the sculpted bucket seats beneath him.

CHaPTeR 7

The Potomac River’s current drifted slowly south in small waves of glimmer, past the base of the Watergate building. The sun breached the horizon as an early rising crew team paddled up-stream, chanting their strokes as their paddles dipped synchronized rings into the river’s rippled surface. It was an odd circular shaped complex of both private apartments and hotel rooms just northwest of the Kennedy Center along the Capital’s riverfront.

President Nixon’s Committee to Re-Elect the President had put this building on the map in 1972 when staff members had been caught breaking in to the Democratic National Committee’s offices and planting listening devices throughout the suite. Upon further investigation, the trail appeared to lead all the way to the White House staff and even Nixon himself. In a very oddly accommodating twist, a White House secretary accidentally erased 18 minutes of tape, supposedly containing recorded voices of White House officers and Richard Nixon himself discussing their plans before the story broke.

The scandal had past now, but the allure of Watergate still remained. It was now a place for the wealthy to stay in luxury suites on visits to Washington. They enjoyed the view, the plush accommodations and the historical impression left by Nixon’s administration, giving the hotel a certain political mystique and pampered allure.

Up on the seventh floor of the west wing, two men sat across from one- another in the well-appointed living room of their suite with a view overlooking the heavily wooded Roosevelt Island and the Potomac. Two city sewage uniforms lay over the back of the couch. One of the men was talking on his cell phone in a Farsi dialect while the other typed sporadically on a laptop set on top of the glass coffee table between them. The man on the phone sounded upset, irritated and barked sternly into the phone, repeating phrases two and three times over in what sounded like utter frustration. Then he stood up from the leather couch and walked toward the kitchenette archway on the far side of the room. His voice became more agitated as the conversation continued.

He was a tall, dark-skinned, slender man. His face was scruffy with a partial beard and mustache that looked like they hadn’t been shaved in weeks. His thick eyebrows accented his short brown hair. He was dressed in khaki cotton slacks and a white, loose-fitting, button-up dress shirt. It was un-tucked and open at the top, exposing his heavy chest hair from under his heavily starched collar. Although of moderate build, he had an intimidating aura about him. His face was worn and tattered with deep wrinkles around his eyes, showing significant signs of stress-induced aging. He wore a gold plated watch on his wrist and a matching necklace around his neck.

After another minute or two, the man hung up the phone and threw it back on the leather couch. It was a quad-band pre-paid international phone they had picked up at the nearest Radio Shack the day they arrived and only used it for necessary calls. When the phone bounced off the couch to the floor, the other stopped his rigorous typing and looked up, slightly irritated at the sudden burst of anger. He leaned forward across the table and mashed his cigarette out into the ashtray. It was filled to the brim with old butts as the smoldering cherry burned itself out, leaving the room smelling like a charred high-school locker-room. He looked back up at the other, waving away the smoke from his face.

“What is it?” said Nahjid.

“What is it?!” replied Ahmir. “What do you think? Last night did not go as we had hoped. Cooper did not have the manuscript and now we must hope it is still in Minchum’s possession. They were not pleased with this news. We must find out if Minchum has shared the script. Massalah demands that we complete our task. He is not happy. That is why I am not happy!”

Saif al-Afawih, also known to American authorities as Abu Mohammed Massalah, has long been linked to Al-Queda as one of Ben Laden’s chiefs of security. He was suspected to be one of the masterminds behind the embassy bombings in Kenya and Tanzania in 1998 and several car bombings along the Israeli-Palestinian borders – a true jihad soldier. An Egyptian native who now assumed the roles of the late Mohammed Atef in coordination of terrorist cells in Europe and America for the Al-Queda network and was still at large. He’d managed to evade U.S. and Interpol Intel efforts to capture him until now and was only growing in strength as his network of undetected homegrown sleeper cells grew in stealth and numbers in unsuspecting suburbia.

“What does he request of us now?” asked Nahjid.

Ahmir walked up close and stood over him in an imposing way.

“We must find the manuscript at once,” he replied, “and we must rid

ourselves of the boy. Send a message to the others. Tell them to track Minchum and find out where his manuscript is at once!” Nahjid looked back at his laptop and began typing the message, then clicked send. Within minutes, a response came back.

“Ok, it is done. They are tracking him now,” he told Ahmir sternly.

Nahjid stood up from his chair and pulled the carbon-coated Israeli-made Barak pistol out of the back of his pants. He released the clip from the handle and checked to see if it was full. It was. He pushed it back in and jammed it into place with a slap to the base of the handle. The look on his face was one of stern determination. Nahjid was always the first to grab his weapon in response to another standing in his way. The .9mm gave him a sensation of power that simply reinforced his eagerness to fulfill his mission while maintaining complete control. He was the cerebral type, but enforced his presence with evident force.

“Now we must go find the boy. We cannot afford to wait any longer,” he said. Ahmir nodded his head in agreement.

They collected their coats from the closet by the door and Nahjid walked over beside the couch to retrieve the cell phone, now lying on the floor face down. They marched out of the room, closing the door behind them; tugging on the handle a second time to be sure it was secure. The elevator dropped to the basement floor and they exited into the parking garage, walking through the dimly lit garage over to their car. Ahmir pulled a set of keys out of his coat pocket and hit the unlock button on the key fob. The car chirped twice then flashed its parking lamps as they got in. Ahmir jumped into the driver’s seat and Nahjid in the passenger’s. They had bought the car the day before as a decoy from a private seller they’d found on the Internet. Massalah had demanded it. Maintaining a low profile – completely undetected – was the key to their mission and they knew it well. The car had a familiar dark blue paint job, with the model number reading 540i on the tailgate in chrome plated lettering. The car’s engine came to life with a turn of the key and they drove up the exit ramp and into the cool, crisp DC morning – the exhaust purring behind them.

It was now 5am and the traffic was still light. It wouldn’t be long before rush hour traffic congested the downtown maze of one-way streets and bustling boulevards. Nahjid had typed in the street address of Maguire Hall into the car’s navigation system and it was now dictating the directions to Ahmir as he drove. The soft, sensual female voice would occasionally chime-in through the car speakers; take a left in five hundred feet, turn right at the next exit. They both found the recorded voice quite soothing – her tone calmed them while their adrenaline ran wild in their system.

They headed north from Watergate and turned left onto M Street. It was a four-lane, east-to-west boulevard running straight through old Georgetown; crowded with restaurants, night clubs, upscale shopping boutiques for those wanting to lighten their wallets and tourist shops for those looking for a take-home to their loved ones. Normally jammed by traffic and crowded sidewalks of college students and sightseers, it was now quiet and devoid of activity as huddles of morning pigeons erratically pecked at the crumbs left by those from the eves-past. They drove down the seemingly deserted street until the system alerted Nahjid to turn north onto 35^th Street. The voice announced to him that their destination was only a few blocks north of where they now were. Turning left on Q Street, they drove onto Georgetown University campus and followed the color-coded directive signage to Maguire Hall.

It was a beautiful campus of well-manicured floral landscaping and dark, lush commons of green grass, back-dropped by sandstone and old Tuscany brick classroom buildings and dormitories from the late colonial era. It was deserted, still being of the early morning hours. The sun was now rising over the horizon and its light began to skim the tops of the old oak trees scattered around the grounds, giving them an iridescent glow of backlit leaves on their top-most branches. The campus was quiet, very quiet. Students were fast asleep in their dorms recovering from their previous night’s endeavors and classes wouldn’t start for another couple of hours.

They pulled up to the entrance of Maguire Hall and parked the car directly in front of the main entrance. Both of them jumped out, adjusted their belts, zipped-up their coats and briefly glanced around as they marched up to heavy wooden doors. During the day, a hall monitor would tend to the front desk, only allowing students through the doorways, but at this time of morning the desk was empty. A stolen student-resident key card to the external front doors helped them gain easy access to an otherwise secure building unnoticed. This would be easy. They proceeded to the staircase and stopped inside the doorway to the hall. They listened – heard nothing, then cautiously proceeded. They wanted the car to be seen, but not them. The staircase was empty as they promptly climbed to the third floor. They slowly pulled the door open and peered into the third floor hallway – again amiss of motion or sound. They proceeded down the hall to Kahlil’s room, number 308, being sure to walk near the walls to avoid the more aged, creaky boards in the center of the hallway. All for the sake of silent progress, not making a noise as they walked down to his room.

The door was ajar – just slightly. Ahmir looked to Nahjid in a puzzled way, wondering why the door had been left open. Nahjid returned the same curious glance and shrugged his shoulders, being sure not to make a sound. They took a minute to listen for movement inside the room, but it was silent. Ahmir put his hand out and nudged the door open a few more inches to see the two single beds and a desk. The bed on the left was empty, but the blankets were left un-made as if someone had recently slept in it. A sleeping body – quietly snoring in rhythmic pulsations, occupied the other bed. Ahmir crept into the room and took a closer look at the slumbering young man, trying to get a better view of the boy’s face. Nahjid peered into the two closets on either side of the room, looking for indications as to which side was Kahlil’s, hoping their contents would reveal to him which bed was his. Nahjid noticed the computer on the desk was running as the screensaver bounced around the LCD screen. He went over to the desk and gently tapped the spacebar and the screen lit up.

On it he saw exactly what he needed to know. Kahlil’s email was still open on the screen. It was the last email from them that Kahlil had responded to, giving them his mailing address for sending the partial payment for his failed attempt at retrieving the manuscript. They had told him he would receive a portion for his troubles by way of a cash transfer into his personal bank account. He would never receive the payment. They only did it to get his location. Kahlil had left his email up on screen and gone to sleep without signing off, thus leaving his messages live on screen. Nahjid motioned to Ahmir to have a look. Ahmir nodded and pointed to the boy asleep on the bed. It had to be him. Ahmir walked over to the other bed and picked up the pillow that lay on it. He carefully moved back over to Kahlil’s bedside and looked at Nahjid suggestively. They nodded in unison.

Kahlil awoke as soon as the pillow was forced onto his face, cutting off any airflow to his mouth or nose. Not reacting immediately, he waited for who he thought was JT to pull the pillow off him and sit back for a laugh. A few seconds passed and the pillow was now being shoved harder into his face. Kahlil quickly realized he would soon run out of air and began to reach around to grab hold of JT’s arms to force him off.

As he did, his hands felt two separate sets of arms holding down the pillow and immediately started to panic, feeling the pressure increase on his face. He began flailing from left to right, trying to free himself from the pillow now smashing his nose into his face. He kicked his feet up into the air in a desperate attempt to connect with his attackers face, but failed.

Now frantic, he gasped for air, but the building pressure kept getting stronger, crushing his nose back into his skull. Pain shot across his face. It was dark and he couldn’t breath. His lungs burned searing pain throughout his chest as he made another attempt at kicking up at his attackers, but missed again. His chest began to surge in an instinctive attempt to find air. Then, a warm fluid began filling his lungs as he gradually fell out of consciousness.

When his legs fell back to the bed they were limp, bouncing on the mattress until they came to rest. The flailing stopped and his arms dropped like limp noodles to either side. After a few more seconds, Ahmir lifted the pillow from his face and looked anxiously into Kahlil’s wide-open eyes. He looked possessed. They didn’t move – they had a cold, frozen look of panic in them and were completely bloodshot. His breathing had stopped; his face had gone pale and his lips now turned blue. Ahmir reached over and closed his eyelids, never enjoying the dead looking back upon him. He then leaned over Kahlil’s rigid chest and listened for a heartbeat but it was gone. Nahjid replaced the pillow back on the other bed and headed towards the door, wanting to get out as quickly as possible. Ahmir followed, but stopped short of the door and turned around. Nahjid stood in the doorway, signaling for Ahmir to hurry, lifting his hands in the air in frustration.

“What is it?” he asked Ahmir in a subtle whisper.

“The computer!” he replied softly. “We must get rid of it. Our

communications could be traced.”

Nahjid looked stunned as he realized their near-fatal error and hastily moved back into the room.

“Well, bring it with us and dispose of it later,” Nahjid said.

Ahmir walked over to the computer and unplugged it from the wall. Leaving the monitor, he grabbed the CPU and hoisted it under his right arm, disconnecting the remaining cables from the unit.

The hall was still quiet as they hurriedly marched down to the staircase. They exited the building and Nahjid jumped in the car parked outside the front doors, looking around to see if anyone had noticed them. Ahmir opened the trunk and set the unit down inside. He slammed the trunk closed and ran around to the driver’s door. Opening it in a hurry, he slid into the bucket seat and swiftly closed the door. As he did, the rear-view mirror came into his sightline and in it he saw a figure about fifty yards back walking towards them. Nahjid hunkered down in his seat as Ahmir shoved the key into the ignition. With the engine roaring to life, he jammed the car into gear and they sped off, laying rubber on the pavement behind them.

CHaPTeR 8

“Who the hell was that?” JT said to himself with a thick French accent. “They sure in a hurry so early, n’est ce pas!”

He took another big drag off his cigarette and blew a plume of smoke out the side of his mouth into the cold morning air. He set the butt in between his thumb and middle finger and flicked the remains of the cigarette into the street.

Dressed in jeans and a t-shirt, he had grabbed a scarf in the room and wrapped it around his neck. The day would be warm, but in the pre-dawn hours, the air had an edge to it. He hadn’t slept well last night and ran out of cigarettes earlier yesterday evening. Thinking he could make it through the night without more, he went to bed. He remembered Kahlil coming in late and getting on the computer at a belated hour. He’d rolled over while Kahlil’s back was to him at the desk and saw him typing away at the keyboard, seeming unsettled. Thinking nothing of it, he rolled back over on his side and went back to sleep. He awoke at about 4:30am and couldn’t fall back asleep. Kahlil lay on his side, sleeping in heavy trance-like breaths. JT arose out of bed, threw on his jeans, shirt and scarf and headed out to the twenty-four hour Seven Eleven at the corner of campus for some smokes and a cup of jo. It was his all-night sanctuary.

He entered the hall foyer, climbed the stairs to the third floor and walked back to his room. He remembered leaving the door ajar, but not completely open as he now found it. Stepping stealthily into the room, JT could see Kahlil lying in his bed, face up, eyes closed and mouth wide open. Incroyable, he thought to himself in his native tongue. Sitting down on his bed – still observing Kahlil’s sloppy slumber habits – he removed his scarf and shoes. As he sat back up, he saw it. The desk was a mess and the computer was gone.

“What the…” he said under his breath. “Kahlil!… Kahlil, wake up,” he

shouted. “What happened to our computer? Qu’est qui c’est passe!”

Kahlil didn’t respond.

“Kahlil!” he said again louder – still he didn’t wake.

JT ran over to his bedside and shook him in his bed. There was no response. He felt like dead weight. His shoulders felt cold to the touch. He shouted his name again as he shook him violently, but then he noticed it. Kahlil’s mouth was wide open as it usually was when he slept, but a small droplet of fresh deep-red blood ran down from the side of his mouth.

“Oh Merde!” he proclaimed in utter shock.

Now frantic, he leaned over Kahlil, putting his ear close to his mouth, only to notice he wasn’t breathing and his skin was a pale blue-ish hue.

“Merde, merde!!” he exclaimed aloud, now feeling panic overtake his gut. “Oh shit, oh shit!” he repeated as he looked around, not knowing what to do next.

JT jumped up off the bed in a frenzy and flipped open his cell phone he retrieved from the desktop. Dialing 911, he looked back to his unresponsive roommate on the bed, laying stiff, rigid and discolored – his mouth wide open in a chilling, morbid way.

Thirty minutes later the coroner wheeled Kahlil’s body out of the room on a stretcher, zipped-up in a black coroner’s bag. JT sat on his bed, his head in his hands staring at the floor between his feet in shock while police and EMT’s cleared the room.

CHaPTeR 9

The phone rang over and over again through his earpiece, but Cooper didn’t pick up. After the sixth ring, his voicemail kicked on in a muddled, pre-recorded voice.

Cooper here, leave a message and I’ll call you back.

“Where the hell are you. It’s Minchum… call me back,” Minchum hung up after leaving his short message. “Where the hell is he?” Minchum thought aloud. “He’s never been late before.” A man to his right looked over at him as he talked aloud to himself.

He had known Cooper for quite some time and he’d never been late before. Minchum had teased Cooper in the past about his incessant need to be on time. Minchum never thought it mattered much. I’ll get there when I get there.

They had first met at the Publishers Media Expo, PME, in Paris two years ago. The Expo was a big one, held at Montparnasse, a lone black steel-ridden skyscraper in downtown Paris. At some point in its past, it had been the tallest building in Western Europe, rising fifty-six stories above the Paris skyline. Beneath it, in an array of subterranean tunnels, laid the infamous catacombs of Paris, filled with bones and skulls of the city’s past after being moved from churchyard burial sites after they’d been found to be contaminating the local water supplies and spreading disease in the 18^th century. Soon after the tower’s completion, the city rose up in arms over the colossal eyesore casting an immense shadow over the older historical buildings of the inner city’s 15^th arrondissement.

The event was held on the top floor in a large ballroom surrounded on two sides with large glass windows overlooking the winding Seine River and inner Paris. To the west was the Eiffel Tower, to the north was the Palais Royale and to the east was the Ile de la Cite, where the impressive gothic bell towers of Notre Dame reached elegantly above the skyline around them like two iconographic monoliths of King Louis VII’s reign. The city was magnificent from this vantage point and offered a beautiful bird’s eye view of all the sites.

It was Cooper’s first Expo as an agent for Anderson Publishing and Elliot Minchum was an author who had just completed his third novel, eager to expand its appeal into new markets. It had seen widespread success in Europe, but was struggling in the U.S. Cooper had been sent to network with some European counterparts and Minchum was networking with American publishers to promote his book into the very lucrative U.S. market. Minchum had been living in Paris for the last five years. Because of his European success, he had purchased a well-appointed apartment in Passy in the prestigious 16th arrondissement. It was a beautiful city of lights and sights, ranging from ancient cathedrals to ultra-modern museums. Architects like IM Pei, Richard Rogers and Renzo Piano all stamped their contemporary marks of style in a muddled Parisian landscape of more historical buildings from centuries past.

His apartment sat on the west side of the Seine River, just south of the Musee Trocadero. It was one of the more affluent neighborhoods in Paris and Minchum’s view from his living room window looked out over Rue Raynoird with the Eiffel Tower in the distance – a view he much loved. He spent much of his time in this room writing over the last year, completing his manuscripts. The rest of his time he spent shopping at the local markets and enjoying a croque-madame at the nearest Brasserie. He often mentioned to Cooper that his favorite pastime was people-watching, something that could be done at any time of day from any sidewalk café in Paris.

Cooper introduced himself to Minchum at the Expo dine-in. They’d been seated together at the same table and introduced themselves, quickly enjoying each others conversations of their common native soil. They carried on a long dialogue over dinner and left together soon after, getting along quite well. They were the only Americans in the crowd and decided to leave the Expo and close the night out over a few pints of Stella Artois in a nearby watering hole.

Minchum wanted to hear all the latest on the Nationals now that they were finally back playing in the DC area after moving from Montreal. Minchum had been in Washington years ago when the Senators were still there. He loved Paris, but dearly missed going out to the ballpark in spring and enjoying the great American pastime of baseball. Cooper told him how the DC council had almost lost the franchise soon after they’d moved them to the District over funding, zoning and location disputes for the new stadium in an area alongside the Anacostia River.

The Nationals first season had gotten off to a great start. They moved into first place in their division midway through the season, but soon lost their streak and ended up in last come the play-offs. Their following seasons had been a mix of highs and lows in RFK Stadium and in the new park. After several brews and some good conversation, they had called it a night.

Since then, they had remained in contact through occasional emails and phone conversations. Fortunately for Cooper, this bonding had given him a distinct advantage over other agents as Minchum’s popularity began to grow in the US. Two years later, Cooper now had a deal worked out with Minchum and Anderson Publishing for his newest book and two more over the next three years. Minchum had previously hesitated due to Cooper’s small publishing house, but had since reconsidered, finding a certain security in his and Cooper’s friendship.

Minchum tried Cooper’s cell one last time – still no answer. He signaled the waitress for his bill and she brought it right over. She thanked him for his business in a cute, waitress kind-of-way and he handed her his credit card.

“I’ll be right back with your bill,” she said with a pleasant, seductive smile. He courteously smiled back. “Did you need anything else?”

“No, I’m all set thanks. I’ll just take the bill,” he finished. She nodded and smiled again, admiring his rustic, fatherly-like appeal. She walked off with a whimsical swagger hoping he might take notice. Seconds later she returned and gave him his credit card slip which he signed – thanking her again. He had always been a good tipper and her flirtations were nice, but he was old enough to be her father.

He stood up and reached into his back pant pocket. Pulling out two Orioles tickets, he looked around one more time for Cooper. The sun warmed his face with radiant light. A crowd was now gathering around the bar on the outdoor platform of the sports bar dining area. Flowing pitchers of beer were rendering them a little rambunctious. He navigated his way off the dining platform and through the late afternoon incompatible mixes of Red Sox and Orioles fans, walking out onto Baltimore’s waterfront boardwalk amid the bustling crowd.

He was now a new Nationals fan, but they were on the road in Philly this weekend for a three-game series. Cooper had bought the Oriole tickets as a welcome-back gesture for Minchum the week before – he thought he would enjoy going to a ballgame at Camden Yards on his first week back in the US.

Minchum had sold his apartment in Paris three weeks ago and decided to move back to DC to push the marketing on his book sales in the US. It was a beautiful ballpark, he thought. Minchum had never been here before, but had used the Baltimore-Washington, D.C. area as the settings for most of his past books and was excited to get inside for the first pitch and see what all the hoopla of Camden was about. He could already smell the roasted peanuts grilling outside the stadium gates and couldn’t wait to get his hands on a bag.

“Shame he’s gonna miss this,” he thought. “He must have gotten in late last night and forgotten about the game.”

With no Cooper in sight, Minchum decided to head to the gates on his own. The Baltimore waterfront was now a rippling mass of people walking, cycling and jogging in all directions. He maneuvered his way through the masses and south to the stadium’s north entrance. It was a massive edifice of brick and green steel girders – towering over the Baltimore skyline in front of him. The sidewalk was lined with small vendors, each yelling over the other, competing for a sale of souvenir hats, t-shirts and peanuts; each reaching out their product in the way of the oncoming pedestrians. Just before reaching the gate, he stopped at one of the peanut vendors and bought a $2.00 bag of peanuts. He’d been gone a while, but he knew if he waited until he got inside they’d cost three times as much. Lifting the bag up to his nose, he took a sniff of its contents and grinned. Yes, they were just peanuts, but something about them at the ballpark reminded him of the days he and his father went to the Senators games in DC. It was as if the vendor had packaged a small bag of distant memories just for him.

He crossed the street and went through the north gate, handing his ticket to the man tending the gate. Marching on into the stadium he could feel the excitement come over him. Five minutes later, “Play Ball!” was heard over the speakers from the stadium’s seats and a roar rumbled through the streets of inner Baltimore.

CHaPTeR 10

It was now the top of the fifth inning and the Orioles were getting squashed six to nothing, giving up four runs off walks in the first two innings. It was a disgrace. With all their talent, the Orioles still couldn’t get out of their funk. Minchum stood up out of his seat and stretched out his arms – yawning aloud.

The stadium was packed and immediately upon standing complaints of down in front! rang out from behind him – he was blocking their view. Sliding across crowded legs and out of the row onto the stairway he looked back to see a group of young vigilant Red Sox fans throwing an annoyed look his way, then turning their focus back on the field as a Red Sox batter knocked a double to center field. The place erupted. He turned and marched up the steps to hit the restroom and grab a soda from the concession stand. The salty peanuts made him thirsty. As he climbed his way up the steps, he noticed two dark-skinned men sitting in seats near the stairwell, staring at him as he walked up past them. They seemed odd to Minchum, dressed in dark cloths, collared shirts and slacks and no snacks or team colors of any kind. In fact, they didn’t seem too interested in the ball game in front of them at all.

“Ball fans aren’t what they used to be,” he said out loud to himself as he climbed the last few steps. He walked through the double doorway and into the walkway under the bleachers where all the vendors had their refreshment counters. One look back at the line and he quickly decided to hit the jon first. Strangely enough, the two men had just walked through the doorway and into the hall behind him and, as he noticed them, they quickly looked away to avoid any eye contact. Thinking little of it, he turned and continued down the hall to the restroom.

He came back out into the hallway a few minutes later to see them again at the other end of the hall, leaning against a wall, looking his way. They immediately diverted their attention elsewhere, then they quickly mingled into the crowded flow of fans scurrying back and forth amongst the slew of vendors, hot dog stands and their seats. Minchum had never seen them before, but thought they might have recognized him from one of his book photos and were simply curious. It didn’t happen often, but there were times when he was approached by fans of his books and asked for autographs or a quick impromptu photo with their families or friends. He didn’t mind much.

He got in line for a drink at the closest stand and took it back to his seat in the stadium where he finished watching the torturous beating of the Orioles by the Red Sox. The game ended with a final score of 13 to 2. Orioles fans funneled out of the stadium with their heads tucked down, while Red Sox fans chanted the team song. It was now about nine o’clock as Minchum made his way through the crowds, back out to the street and to the parking garage where he’d parked. People were everywhere. Baseball fans leaving the park were now venturing out to the waterfront for a night out on the town. Minchum still had a forty-five minute drive ahead of him back to his apartment in Arlington and wanted to get out of the congested streets. It only took him a few more minutes to reach the garage. He quickly found his car by the elevator, got in and headed for the Baltimore-Washington Parkway back towards the District.

Traffic was jammed as he made his way through downtown Baltimore, but it progressively thinned out as he got onto the Parkway. Setting his cruise on 70, he reached into the passenger seat and grabbed his CD keeper. Unzipping it, he pulled out his favorite driving music and slid it into the in-dash CD player. The slot sucked-in the CD and began to play it. Beethoven’s sixth in F major burst into his speakers and he quickly reached down to the controls to turn it down a bit. He settled back into his seat and began waiving his left arm in the air as if conducting the orchestra while he barreled down the parkway.

About twenty minutes passed and just as there was a pause in the melody, he heard his cell phone ring from inside his pant pocket. It startled him at first. It continued ringing as he fumbled his hand under the seatbelt and into his pant pocket, trying to hurry before the caller would hang up. Finally tugging the phone from his pocket, he flipped it open to see Cooper’s name on the display. Putting it up to his ear, he hit the answer button.

“Cooper, what happened to you?” he said teasingly into the phone, “You missed a hell of a game,” he said even though it hadn’t been much of a game at all.

“Minchum, I’m terribly sorry for not making it,” Cooper said. “Something happened to me on the way home last night and I just got home from the hospital this morning.”

“My word”, Minchum said sounding concerned. “What on earth happened?”

“I was mugged walking home from the metro station last night.”

“Mugged? You’re kidding. You all right?”

“I’m fine, just have a little bit of a head-ache. I got home from the hospital early this morning. The drugs knocked me out.”

“What did they take?”

“Strangely enough, just my iPod”

“Your what?” Minchum replied, not knowing what an iPod was, showing his age.

“I’ll tell you about it later. Did you enjoy the game?”

“Let me put it to you this way, the Orioles got spanked!”

“Shame. They’ve been up and down the last few years. Just not consistent – and with all that talent,” Cooper said.

“Well, I appreciate you buying the tickets… just wish you had come along. You sure you’re okay?” Minchum replied

They carried on the conversation a few more minutes and then began discussing his new manuscript. They had some work to do on the marketing for his last book, now going to paperback after a two-year stretch in hardback. Cooper reminded him that his popularity was quickly rising and that most titles move from hardback to paperback within six to eight months after release. The fact that Agent 12 had done so well here in the US was exciting to Minchum as it was to Cooper. Minchum had spent over three years on the research for this book and hoped it would do well stateside.

“What do you say we get together tomorrow for some lunch?” Cooper asked Minchum. “Say, around noon at Bistro Concorde.”

“Don’t know it.”

“It’s a little French café on King Street in old town Alexandria, you’ll like it – very authentic,” Cooper said.

“You sure you’re up for it. You should take a few days to heal up and rest.”

“Nah. I’ll be fine. Just a little shooken-up, that’s all.”

“I’ll bet!”

“So we on?”

“Sounds great. See you then,” Minchum replied and then hung up the phone.

Turning the music back up after setting the phone down in the center console, he settled back into his seat and again began waiving his arm about as he drove.

Minchum had grown up in Bethesda, MD and attended private schools until college. He came from a wealthy family of jewelers who became wholesalers to the Washington area jewelry outlets and had established a very profitable company. Minchum had no interest in the family business even though his father had wanted him to take it over when it was time. He’d graduated from the Virginia Military Institute, VMI, with a Masters in Criminal Psychology and served eight years in the Army as a member of its elite Special Forces.

After the army, he had taken the Foreign Service exam and began working for the State Department as a labor attaché. Traveling around the world to different embassies, he became a prominent figure in the realm of the labor practices and trade unions around the globe, focusing on training and development of workforces in third world countries. He firmly believed in democracy and the benefits it brought to foreign workforces.

His work for the State Department had exposed him to a wealth of knowledge on labor laws and practices both in the U.S. and the world. But as times changed, the world modernized to the point where union labor practices were no longer as helpful as they once were. Modernization of countries, their labor laws and business practices had become streamlined to the point that trade support for labor unions was crumbling.

He’d been stationed in Tel-Aviv prior to 9/11 as a liaison between US counterparts and the liberal Palestinian tribes in the northwest regions near Haifa. Befriending the tribal leaders, he’d taken up their cause for religious freedom and territorial rights in the face of the ever-strengthening western influences. At this point, he decided to retire and become a writer, something he had always wanted to do. Although highly intelligent, Minchum had turned into a bit of an eccentric. He became very open minded, but very closed mouthed about his views, until he began to write. He took a keen interest in American foreign policy and international law enforcement and this became the theme of his novels. Many of his fans described him as a cross between Sean Connery and Captain Kangaroo, both in looks and demeanor. He was a tall portly man, in his late fifties, dark grey hair with a curvy moustache and a scruffy peppered beard. Although he enjoyed his privacy, his close friends found him to both of high intellect and curiously jovial.

He merged onto the beltway, finding it faster to Arlington than going through the District. Riding the beltway around towards Richmond he crossed the Woodrow Wilson Bridge, taking the route 1 exit and going north into Arlington from there. This usually saved him anywhere from ten to twenty minutes off his drive time from the north side of the city.

As he merged onto the beltway, he noticed the same set of headlights had been behind him all the way home. The same glare had been in his re-view mirror for the past hour. It was now dark and traffic was sporadic at best. The car seemed to stay at a safe distance back, but never trailing by too much. He didn’t seem too concerned until turning off at Route 1, noticing the headlights behind him did the same. As he arrived at this apartment and turned into the parking lot, he watching in the rear-view mirror as the trailing car pulled to the side of the road and shut off its lights. It was a black sedan with temporary plates. Pulling around the side of his building, he parked his car. Still curious, he walked back around front to see if the car was still there and it was, but he couldn’t make out any visible occupants.

He giggled to himself feeling silly, then proceeded to enter his building and up to his smallish apartment. It was now after 10pm and he was exhausted from the game and the drive. He’d made plans to meet Cooper at noon tomorrow, at the Café Concorde on King Street in old town Alexandria and needed to get some solid rest. The car was weird, but probably just someone who lived on the same block.

CHAPTER 11

Standing in front of the mirror, wiping a hand towel across its misty surface so he could see, Cooper finished drying his arms and shoulders off. The bathroom was full of a warm, dense steam from the hot shower he just shut off and beads of sweat were forming on his forehead. His neck was still stiff but the swelling was now almost gone. Moving the towel carefully over the back of his head, he wiped his shoulders dry from one side to another. It had been almost two days since the attack, but the spot was still red and surprisingly tender with some subtle bruising. It ached with a pulsating throb. He brushed his teeth and rinsed with a sharp mouthwash, spitting it out into the marble sink. Opening the door to the bedroom, he felt a sudden chill of cool air against his chest, causing him to shiver briefly. He went to the bedside and slowly got dressed.

He could hear Dorothy down the hall on the phone – her voice sounding a little concerned. She hung up the phone and walked into the room.

“Who was that?” Cooper asked.

“Hey honey,” she smiled at him. “It was detective Edwards. He called to see if he could stop by and talk about your incident the other night.”

“When’s he wanting to come by?”

“He said he was on his way now and he had some information regarding the attack, but wouldn’t tell me what.”

“Huh… wonder what he’s got,” Cooper said as he buttoned his shirt.

They made their way down the stairs to the kitchen and Cooper sat at one of the stools along the kitchen counter. Dorothy walked around behind the counter and poured him a cup of steaming hot coffee, setting it in front of him next to the days Washington Post. Cooper looked down at the front page and read the headline – Ben Laden’s New Threat, Insurgence Strengthens.

He sipped coffee from his mug and set it back down on the polished granite countertop. He wondered what would come of Iraq over the next few months. American troops were being ambushed on a daily basis and insurgent resistance seemed to be escalating. Suicide terrorists were blowing themselves to bits in cities around Iraq in the name of Allah and the jihad, killing American troops and Iraqi police in car bombs and frequent ambushes.

He remembered reading a manuscript from one of the authors Anderson Publishing had pursued, only to lose him to Random House. He was a University of Chicago associate professor, who’s name he couldn’t remember. He had done intensive research into what motivated suicide terrorists into such acts of violence. The extensive research had found that suicide terrorism could be traced to a single cause, occupation of sovereign land by a more powerful country. It made sense. It explained the incessant acts of aggression against American troops in Iraq, he thought. Bin Laden had become a mercenary for the jihad and now men like Al Zarkawi were emerging as a new wave of Al-Queda insurgent leaders, calling themselves “Soldiers of Mohammed”. Islamic jihadist terrorist cells were being tracked in Spain, Germany, North Africa, Canada and even in the U.S. and their threat lingered in shadows of doubt and suspicion.

Cooper had not been a big fan of the President and current Administrations approach to foreign policy but had grown tired of the plight and had forcibly disengaged himself from the debate. Ben Laden was still the primary target, but efforts were constantly coming up shy.

“Looks like he’s still alive and threatening… I mean, breathing,” Cooper said jokingly. Dorothy smiled with a mutual disconnected interest in the headline of the day. She shared his views and had grown equally tired of it all.

“So, detective Edwards didn’t say anything to you about the attack over the phone?” he asked.

“No, he just kept saying he’d tell us when he got here. I hope they’ve found the person who did this,” she replied.

Just then, the doorbell rang, startling them both. Dorothy set down her coffee mug on the countertop – steam rising from its porcelain brim – and walked to the front door, looking through the peephole to see whom it could be.

“Wow. He wasn’t kidding! It’s the detective,” she said, sounding surprised at his promptness. She opened the door and invited Edwards in. He stepped in the doorway and scuffed his shoes against the mat on the floor a couple of times, politely attempting to remove any dirt from his polished black shoes.

“Hello detective,” she said as she motioned him towards the kitchen.

“Good morning Dorothy, Cooper’s here I trust,” he said, sounding concerned.

“Sure. He’s in the kitchen, having a cup of coffee. Can I get you one?”

“I’d love one thanks,” he answered and walked around the corner to into the kitchen.

Cooper stood up and reached out his hand. “Good morning detective,” he said. Edwards shook his hand and sat down on the stool beside him as Dorothy went back behind the counter to pour Edwards his coffee. “I hear you might have some information for us about the other night,” Cooper said.

“Yes.” His eyes focused on Coopers, “We may have found your attacker.”

“You’re kidding!” Cooper couldn’t believe they’d found him already.

“How’d you find him so fast?”

“I have a buddy in the D.C. police department who let me in on some information about a student death at Georgetown University yesterday morning. It looks like the student may have been your attacker. They found evidence that ties him to you.”

“What!” Cooper said, aghast at what he just heard. “Did you say death?”

“Yes, it looks like he was suffocated, but they’re still waiting on the autopsy to be sure.”

“What makes you think this is the same person who jumped me?”

Edwards reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a rolled zip-lock plastic bag and unraveled it, lifting it up so they could both see its contents.

“No way!” Cooper blurted. “Is that my iPod?”

Edwards flipped the bag over to reveal the engraved surface on the back. The letters C.M.A. were etched into the metal back in a stylized font. Dorothy had the iPod engraved before she gave it to him on his birthday three months ago.

“It is! Those are my initials… Cooper- Michael- Alexander!”

“They found this in the coat pocket of the dead student and they put it into evidence. Fortunately, I had mentioned your incident to my buddy in D.C. and he brought it to my attention this morning.”

“So, he was a student at Georgetown, huh?” Cooper said.

“He was an exchange student on a visa from Turkey, he’d only attended one semester there.”

“What was he doing in the middle of the night in Springfield,” Dorothy asked.

“Well, that’s the part that raises some questions,” Edwards replied.

“What do you mean?”

“Does the name Kahlil Mustala mean anything to you?”

“No, why?” Cooper asked.

“You drive a blue BMW 5 Series, don’t you?

“Yeah, why?”

“Were you anywhere around the Georgetown University campus yesterday morning?”

“Was I?” Cooper was confounded by where this was headed.

“Yes, did you go anywhere yesterday morning?” Edwards pushed back.

“No… Why? Is there a problem? I was here in bed. Dorothy’s been here with me. I didn’t even get up until about ten or so. The drugs the hospital gave me for my neck knocked me out pretty good?”

“Were you here with him yesterday morning?” he asked Dorothy.

“Yes, yes I was. In fact I was with him all day. Why?”

“Do you mind making a statement to that effect?” Edwards continued.

“Why! What’s going on?” Cooper wasn’t enjoying this current line of questioning.

“Apparently, there was a witness that saw a blue BMW leaving the Maguire dorm entrance at around 6am yesterday morning and took off in a hurry. Do you know anything about this?”

“Of course not! Am I some sort of suspect now?” he said in an elevated tone.

“If I could just get a statement from you and Dorothy on your whereabouts yesterday morning, it would probably help clear this up,” Edwards said, trying to settle him down.

“I’m sure there is more than one blue BMW in this town!”

“Sure there are. I’m confident you have nothing to concern yourself with,” Edwards said reassuringly.

“Any idea why he was killed?” Dorothy asked, now calming down her tone yet still anxiously serious.

“Not yet. We only know what the witness saw and that the dead kid’s computer was taken from his room. They’re still checking out the dorm for more evidence. The department has been swamped over the last twelve hours. This student death, a body of a sewage worker this morning in DC, a gang shooting in Anacostia – it’s just been crazy. Why don’t you meet me down at the station at about three o’clock? It’ll just take a few minutes to take your statement, then you can be on your way.”

“Body in the sewer? Weird,” Cooper replied. “We’ll be there. Is there anything else we can do? Anything at all?” Dorothy asked.

“That’s all I need for now. I’ll let you know as soon as I hear anything,” he answered.

He stood up and thanked them for the coffee, which he never even touched – steam still rising from its surface. Cooper shook his hand in a relatively troubling way, finding their brief conversation unsettling. Dorothy escorted Edwards back to the front door. She opened it and he left without further words, lancing a gracious smile as he moved past her.

CHAPTER 12

Cooper went back upstairs, now feeling a moderately flustered. He finished getting dressed in his usuals and gathered his cell phone and car keys. Returning back downstairs, he kissed Dorothy goodbye, walking out the front door and into the driveway where his Beemer was parked. It gleamed in the sunlight, having been buffed and waxed just last week. He climbed in and headed off to old town Alexandria for his mid-day rendezvous with Minchum.

Traffic was light and he made it to King St. in record time. His sunroof was open and the sun felt scintillating on his sore head and shoulders. Driving east down King Street, he observed a mix of well-dressed professionals searching for a quick in-and-out lunch and tourists doing some mid-day window-shopping along the cobblestone sidewalks on either side of the street. Passing through the next traffic light, he pulled to the side along the front of the Bistro Concorde. Putting his car in reverse, he turned to look back, effortlessly backing the car into the spot in front of the café, making parallel parking look like a breeze.

It was a small restaurant in an aging building, renovated with modern appliances and materials, but done in a way to maintain it’s aged, antiqued appearance. To the right of the building was a quaint, tree-shaded patio area with lunch tables set up under blooming dogwood trees and a decorative iron swing-gate, through which he entered. The hostess approached, but Cooper signaled to Minchum sitting in the back corner. She nodded and gestured to proceed. Just then Minchum looked up from his menu and waived.

“Well… you decided to show this time, huh!” he said teasingly.

“Sorry about the other day,” Cooper responded as he sat down at the table. “It’s been rough to say the least.”

“So, how are you?”

“Much better, thanks. Still a little tender back here,” Cooper said, pointing to the back of his neck. “Son-of-a-gun hit me pretty hard.”

“Did you figure out what he was after?”

“Well… yeah, I guess,” Cooper said, a little puzzled. “Seems he was after my iPod, but…”

Minchum interrupted, “Your what?”

“My iPod. It’s a digital music player. It’s kind of like a Walkman but the music is stored digitally. Not much for technology, are you?”

“Not so much.”

“The detective working the case came by to see me this morning and told me they found the guy who attacked me.”

“That was fast!” Minchum replied.

“Apparently, he had a buddy working another case in D.C. and realized they were connected,” Cooper went on. “The boy who robbed me was killed last night in his dorm at G.U.”

“Really!”

“Yeah. They were still working on the connection between my attack and the boys killing,” Cooper added.

“Weird coincidence, or blind luck?” Minchum asked with a curious tone.

“What do you mean?”

“Just seems odd, don’t you think?” he continued. “I also had something strange happen on the way back from the game last night.”

“Really? What?” Cooper asked inquisitively.

“You ever had the feeling someone’s following you?” he asked Cooper. “It was odd. Two men, a car, a weird feeling. Just couldn’t put my finger on it. I guess after writing all these books, I’ve grown a little weirded-out. The research I have done keeps creeping back in my mind. Cell phone that can be traced even when they’re off, multi-person tracking teams – constantly switching out their trackers so not to give away their presence, wire taps, web tracing. It’s all too much. Probably nothing to bother about.”

“Go on…”

“I ran into a couple of weird characters at the game yesterday who seemed to be watching me, then, on the way home, I could swear a car followed me all the way from Baltimore to my apartment.”

“You’re kidding!” Cooper asked feeling a little creeped-out now.

“Then, this morning, I could swear I saw the same car on my way over here, but only for a brief moment,” he continued. “Then I lost it.”

“Huh,” Cooper exclaimed.

“Most likely making something out of nothing,” Minchum said, referring to himself.

“You should let them know you don’t have an iPod.” Cooper said with a smirk on his face, trying to make light of their conversation.

“I just wonder,” Minchum went on.

“About what?” Cooper asked curiously.

“When I was still in Paris, I was approached by a small publisher I’d never heard of before. The agent I talked to over the phone had a strong middle-eastern accent and said he worked for La Press Collette or something to that effect. He was very persistent about getting a copy of my new manuscript. He called me constantly, insisting I send it to him. I don’t know how they got my number or who they were. The only thing I could think of was they caught my speech at the Sorbonne a few weeks before flying here. It was a presentation I was asked to do by Michele LaMarc, the Dean of the School of criminal justice at the University. I talked about my research into my previous books, then, gave the students about a twenty-minute synopsis of my new script. They must have been in the crowd and either liked or disliked something in the script. It was all kind of odd.”

“Did you ever figure out what they really were after?” Cooper asked.

“No, they suddenly quit calling. I never heard from them again.”

“Did you let anyone know about the calls?”

“No, not really. Europeans tend to be very persistent, even invasive when they go after authors. I kind of forgot about it over the last few weeks.” Minchum finished.

“What the heck are you writing about now? Something in your script got someone’s attention!” Cooper said.

“Who knows? I inevitably offend someone from some obscure, insignificant paragraph of my books. It’s happened before,” he said.

“Well, after what happened to me, I’d say be careful. If you notice any other weird cars or people following you around, you better let someone know about it.” Cooper cautioned him.

“Oh… I’m sure it’s nothing to worry about.” Minchum replied, waiving-off the warning as trivial.

The waiter approached and asked if they were ready to order. They looked quickly at their Magnani paper menus and Minchum went first.

“I’ll take the steak au poivre with a ceaser’s salad.”

“And I’ll take the chicken cous cous. No salad,” Cooper said.

“And to drink, messieurs?”

“I’ll just have a glass of water, thanks,” Cooper responded.

“I’ll have another Chardonnay,” Minchum gestured to the empty glass in front of him. The waiter nodded and lifted the glass from the table and went off into the side door of the kitchen. Moments later he was back with a second full glass of wine and filled Cooper’s glass with ice water, then moved to the table next to them to take their order.

“So, here’s a copy of the paperback cover. We revived the graphics a bit to appeal to the American market,” Cooper said, pulling out a copy from his leather briefcase, handing it to Minchum.

“Looks great. I’m liking the graphics!” he said.

“If it works for you, I’ll send it out tomorrow and we should see Agent 12 in paperback hitting the bookstores on time for the May 30^th release date.”

“Sounds great,” Minchum smiled contently. “I’d love to see this thing surpass the numbers from Europe.”

“So, how’s the new one coming?” Cooper asked, not able to hold back his excited anticipation.

“Finished it a couple of weeks ago, didn’t I tell you?” he asked.

“No… did you bring a copy for me?”

“In my car. I meant to give it to you in Orlando, but I caught a bug over the weekend and missed the expo.”

“Huh! I must have had the same bug. I skipped it too. Just went upstairs to bed that night in the hotel and caught some good shut-eye. Can I get it from you when we finish up here?”

“Sure thing. I’ll grab it after we eat,” he said.

The waiter walked their way with their dishes; the smell of pepper emanating from Minchums steak. Cooper moved his head back and forth like an anxious dog waiting for his owner to finally set down the bowl full of food. He was starving and he showed it. Setting them down in front of them, they whipped out their utensils and dug in. Cooper asked for a refill on his ice water between chews and the waiter brought it right over. Not much conversation occurred while they ate – both eating as if they had skipped breakfast, making their dishes evaporate before them.

CHAPTER 13

Cooper sat back in his chair with a sigh and wiped his mouth clean using the serviette from his lap. The meal was far more filling than he’d expected. Authentic French dishes were usually lighter, but this one had plenty on the plate to top him off. Minchum had one last bite on his plate and gulped it right down, looking as if he could eat another without a seconds’ hesitation. Pushing his chair back from the table, he reached for the remaining wine at the bottom of his glass and sucked it down, setting it back down on the table with a thump.

“That was delish!” he said with a pleasurable grin.

“That it was,” Cooper exclaimed.

Cooper motioned to the waiter for their bill and he swiftly ran to the back to retrieve it. Moments later he lay the leather binder on the table and said, “Merci messieurs!” and disappeared again to the back room.

They both sat there for a minute, then Cooper reached over to grab the bill. Minchum never moved, still smiling, patting his belly full of steak. Cooper knew Minchum well enough that he would expect Anderson Publishing to cover the bill on a remedial expenses such as lunch and Cooper saw no reason not to call this a working lunch. It was the cost of business. He opened-up the bill and began figuring the tip without focusing on the excessive total staring back at him..

“While you’re finishing up there, I’ll run to the car for the manuscript.” Minchum said as he got up out of his chair.

“Great!” Cooper replied, not lifting his head from the bill.

Minchum walked through the iron gate and onto King St. Turning left on the lumpy cobblestone sidewalk, he disappeared behind the front of the restaurant. He had mentioned having parked only a block down the road and would be right back. Cooper signed-off on the bill, adding a generous tip to the total. Not so much for the service, but for the great food. He’d been to several of the restaurants along King St. but none quite as good as this one. Not to mention the atmosphere outside was great and that was what made the difference to him when dining out.

Without warning, the table under him shook violently as a loud explosion rang out from down the street. The crystal wine glasses toppled over, cracking against the tabletop. Cooper jumped. It sounded like a gas line rupturing. The street just beyond the eatery quickly began to fill with thick ominous black smoke. There was a brief odd silence right after the explosion and then the commotion started. Dogs barking, people yelling, car alarms going off in every direction.

Cooper remained seated at first, having become accustomed to city life and the constant noises and distractions, but upon seeing the smoke he rose quickly out of his chair. The other patrons were now doing the same, talking nervously amongst themselves as they ran toward the street. Cooper dashed out past the iron gate and onto the cobblestone sidewalk. He looked right, up the street, only to see billowing black smoke coming from the street side about a block up. He fretfully started walking towards the thickening smoke, wondering where Minchum was when the explosion rang out. As he grew closer, he noticed jagged shards of metal debris all over the street, snapping and popping like smoldering firewood. The scene was horrendous. People had cleared the area, now watching from a safe distance except for those who where injured as they lay chaotically strewn about the roadside area. Shop windows had shattered and glass was showered outwards onto the sidewalks, snapping under his feet like bubble wrap as his pace quickened. His hands began to shake and his throat went dry as his breathing quickened, inhaling the dense smoke now surrounding him like a dark velvet blanket. His heartbeat raced as he called out for Minchum. There was no answer. Now jogging, he approached the wreckage on the west side of the road – carnage of sheet metal, rubber and shattered glass lay crumpled on the roadside, burning as if it were made of paper soaked in gasoline. Visibility was poor, but Cooper knew Minchum drove a deep blue Infiniti Q45 and it was nowhere around. He felt panic flush into his head. Looking closer at the shell of a car wrapped in flames, he noticed spots of paint, still untouched by the fire. The paint had bubbled from the heat, but the patches were deep blue in coloration. The letter Q was badly melted, but the number 45 was untouched on the tail section of the wreckage. Cooper couldn’t believe what he was seeing and an awakening fear set in.

“No, no… no… NO!!!” Cooper cried out, running around to what used to be the driver’s side of the wreckage.

The heat was still intense, but the flames were slowing. The door was jammed open, badly bent back from the severe blast. A body lay slumped over the passenger seat and his legs dangled like broken tree limbs out the door. His clothing and head were horribly charred and tattered, still smoldering like simmering hot coals. Spots of skin were exposed on his legs, arms and head – badly blistered and blackened in the blast.

Cooper stepped back in absolute horror. He gasped, but choked in the thickening air. The scene looked like a besieged battle zone. It immediately reminded him of an ambush scene he’d witnessed in Tel-Aviv years ago. Then he thought of his daughter. He wondered if she’d been mangled in the same manner in her accident and the thought chilled his insides. Although charred, the clothes matched what Minchum had on when he’d gotten up from the table. Raising his hands to his face, partially covering his vision, his labored through his breathing as his hands shook uncontrollably. His arms began to ache from his shoulder to his elbows. His heart hammered in his chest as his neck tightened up. He couldn’t wholly understand what he was witnessing. A friend, a colleague, dead, slumped over the front seat of his car, wrapped in rutted mangled metal and red-orange flames.

“No!..No!… This can’t be!” he yelled, now standing in the middle of the street. “How could this happen! Why!?!”

By now the distant tell-tale sirens could be heard approaching from distant arterial roadways. Within a few minutes, the street was congested with police cruisers, fire units and ambulances parked at odd angles across the street; their lights flashing in all directions like an outdoor discotheque. The smoke had now cleared, but sections of metal were still aflame in a puddle of fire-retardant foam. Minchum’s ruined body had been removed from the wreckage, but Cooper still had the image trapped in his exhuasted brain. He sobbed, slumped down on the bumper of one of the ambulances while a medic checked him for any injuries.

“You hurt sir?” she asked in a comforting tone.

He didn’t answer.

“Sir?” she asked again.

“No,… I’m fine,” he said between sobs. “I wasn’t around when it went off.”

“Did you see what happened?” a voice said from afar.

A police officer in his blues and polished badge came over and took his statement. When they were done, he was cleared to go only on the premise that he didn’t leave the area for the next two weeks. By then, Dorothy had arrived and ran over to hug him. He’d called her cell after the medics arrived on scene. He wouldn’t let go of her, still in a state of utter shock.

“What happened?”

“Minchum’s dead!” he said with obvious despair in his voice.

“The author?!”

“Yes!”

“What… why? What happened Cooper!” she couldn’t believe it.

“He went to his car after lunch to get a manuscript,” he chocked up on his words, “then all I know is… his car explodes and I ran out to see him slumped over in the fire. It was horrible!”

“God, I’m so sorry. How did this happen?”

“I don’t know what’s going on. I just can’t believe it,” he said.

“Let me take you home, you need to get away from here,” she responded.

They left his car and she took him home. She’d be back later to get it.

CHaPTeR 14

The two anonymous men turned left into the underground garage, drove down the ramp and parked in a spot nearest the elevators. They got out of the car and headed directly towards the elevators, unwilling to be distracted by anything or anyone. The digital display above the elevators buttons displayed the number seven and the doors opened. They stepped out and marched down the hall side-by-side. Their focus was unbreakable. They stopped in front of the furthermost suite door and knocked twice; one of them carrying a weighted black gym bag. A voice came from inside soon after rapping on the door.

“Who is there?” The voice asked.

“It is us,” one of the men responded in Farsi.

The door opened just enough for the two men to enter, then was swiftly shut behind them. Customary greeting were exchanged and they sat around a glass-top table by the window overlooking the creeping Potomac. They sat for a minute without sharing words, just reading each other’s particular moods and telltale facial expressions.

“You were successful”, Ahmir said, looking coldly at the men across from him.

“Yes, it was clean,” one of them answered.

It had all gone according to plan. The TV was still on in the background. Channel 4 News had just finished its breaking story of the car bomb that rocked old town Alexandria during the lunch hour. They reported that the New York Times bestselling author, Charles Minchum, had been killed in the blast after his car suddenly exploded with him inside. Witnesses reported that he looked like he was reaching over to his passenger seat when the explosion occurred, killing him instantly, burning his body in the fiery wreckage.

Alexandria police had first responded, then were quickly joined by the black-suit agents of the FBI. Now reporting they found trace amounts of C-4 in the wreckage, the FBI was now treating the investigation as an act of terrorism, completely quarantining off the area. There were no claims of responsibility as of yet, but they were expecting one of many fanatical factions to step forward and assert their claim over the next few hours.

Minchum had been pronounced dead at 2:45pm and hadn’t left any known family behind. Channel 4 had finished their report as usual, promising to update the public as soon as they learned new information on the story. It had gone to commercial, then come back on and was now covering a story of a break-in at an Arlington apartment complex. No one was paying any attention to the screen at this point.

“I just received a call from home, they were pleased with the news,” Nahjid interjected. “You have served the cause well and you shall be rewarded for it. Leave the equipment with us and return to your homes. We will be in contact.” Ahmir and Nahjid stood up. The others followed suit. They placed the bag on the table and walked back towards the front door. Ahmir opened it and they left without any further words.

Nahjid walked back over to the black duffle bag sitting on the glass table and gave it an inquisitive stare. It sat there almost staring back at him. Unzipping it, he looked in at the potent soft hardware inside.

It contained a remote detonator, some magnets, rolls of duct tape, a screwdriver, batteries and something wrapped in tin foil. He reached in and gently grabbed the lump of foil, lifting it out of the bag with extreme caution. Laying it on the table, he unwrapped it, revealing the hazardous contents inside.

It was a gray in color, looking like a square of soft gray clay. It was C-4, military grade. Nahjid remembered researching facts on C-4 on the internet, his infinite source for abundant research, finding out that the C referred to composition and the number 4 referred to a scale – 1 through 4 level of explosive chemical composition mixed into the moldable plastic material. Generally innate without a detonator, he was still particularly careful. C-4 packed a huge explosive punch for its relatively smallish size. Only a handful of the plastic explosive could rip through construction-level steel girders. For their purposes, it was the choice explosive, since it could be molded to any shape, especially the underside of a car. They’d given the other two men the bag yesterday and now the C-4 inside was significantly lighter – about eight or nine pounds worth – more than enough to mince a car into tiny shards of metal and ash. He wrapped the package back in the foil, carefully placed it back into the bag and zipped it up. He looked up from the bag and glanced over to Ahmir. A devilish grin crept across his face, seeming excited at the sight of the powerful explosive.

His grin was driven by two separate emotions. One of simple pleasure in accomplishing the first stages of his mission for Massalah, the second was driven more by the irony of the mission itself – a mission that they’d achieved purely on the mechanisms of capitalism. He knew their funding had come directly from the American consumers. He found a certain humor in the fact that American dollars were funding his actions. The network of retail gang thefts and black market cigarette sales were a primary income source for some of Massalah’s peripheral terrorist cells. Tobacco was stolen from the wholesalers in North Carolina and moved to New York, Boston and Washington, DC and soled on the black market for unimaginable profits. Gangs of organized retail thieves moved across the country in rental cars and foil-lined backpacks clearing out retailers of high dollar good like computers, DVD’s and electronics, which were then sold to black market vendors. Massalah even had his hands in trafficking prescription drugs like Percoset, Vicodin and Codeine from Mexico and moving them across the borders into the U.S. and making millions off of illegal drug sales through discreet websites – advertising the fact that no prescriptions were needed for the purchase.

His grin grew with every thought of the source of their funding. The American consumer would directly fund their attack – the American way. He chuckled. It was the perfect crime. Americans would fuel their need for drugs, tobacco and consumer goods and do so in such a way to help fund the very terrorist attacks they fought so diligently against.

“Now it is our turn to serve them,” Ahmir remarked to Nahjid standing next to him.

“Yes. We must go now,” he answered with clear conviction.

CHaPTeR 15

Cooper sat glued to the screen. His was quiet; both emotionally and physically fatigued from his harrowing experiences from earlier in the day. He couldn’t believe Minchum had no next of kin. Emptiness crept over him, leaving him feeling a deep sense of despair. Since Dorothy had brought him home, he’d remained still in that chair, disconnected from everything around him, including her. She’d tried to talk to him, but he was uninterested in verbalizing on his feelings. She knew it would take some time and she left him alone. It was now getting late as Cooper sat under a single dim lampshade as he starred at the screen lit up in front of him.

Channel 4 was re-airing their six o’clock news at eleven for those who liked their updates just before lights-out. They’d just finished a clip on the car bomb in Alexandria and then moved on to a story of a break-in and arson case that had occurred sometime in the early afternoon hours at an Arlington apartment complex.

The news anchor finished his intro to the story and went right to the correspondent on the scene. Gloria Mendez appeared on camera, immediately starting into how an intruder had apparently broke into the apartment directly behind her at 4581 South Chesterfield Court. She went on to talk of witnesses having seen two men break in through the front door, come back out with what appeared to be computer parts and a monitor, then return inside, then minutes later left the premises. Soon thereafter, the place was ablaze. She finished explaining how the police and fire department had arrived only to see the apartment unit completely engulfed in flames. Being under a time constraint, she quickly ran through the facts of the case before her 30 second segment ran out.

Coopers sat motionless, his eye fixed on the screen and his mouth half open. He went from calm to anxious and bothered. The story wrapped-up and they went to commercials.

“I.. It can’t be!” he said under his breath.

“What’s the matter, babe?” Dorothy said from behind the kitchen bar, tossing a ceaser salad for dinner, looking over to him suddenly sitting up erect in the recliner in the living room.

“If I didn’t know any better, I’d say that was Minchum’s apartment they were just talking about. I stopped by there once when I dropped off the final copies of his contract from the office a few months back. I could swear that was the same place.”

“Are you sure?” she said with a disconcerted tone.

“Wait. What was the address that Mendez reported a minute ago? Did you catch any of it?”

“Something about Chesterfield Road, or Court or something like that,” she said. He got up quickly from the recliner and hustled out of the room and up the stairs. A minute later he slowly descended the staircase, his Blackberry in hand. He stopped before reaching the last step.

“Oh my god!” he said again, this time sounding more alarmed.

“What?” Dorothy asked.

“It was his apartment! That was his they broke into and burned. I’ve got his address stored in my address book right here. What the hell is going on?”

“Are you sure?”

“It’s right here in front of me!” he said sternly. “4581 South Chesterfield Court, it’s right here.”

“Oh my god!” Dorothy replied.

“I don’t get it,” Cooper continued. “Why would someone want Minchum dead and then ransack and burn his apartment?”

“What were you two having lunch about today?” she asked.

“Nothing worth dying over! Jesus! We just finalized some details on his book…” he stopped.

“What? What is it?” Dorothy asked, now sounding more upset.

“His manuscript.”

“His what?” she asked.

“He headed to his car to collect his new manuscript. He’d just finished telling me he felt like he’d been followed over the last day or so… then he got up from the table to get it from his car and right then it blows up! Now we find out his apartment was broken into, his computer stolen and his home burned.”

“You think it has something to do with his manuscript?” she said.

“What else could it be? The man has no enemies! Everyone loved him.”

“What was the manuscript about?” Dorothy asked.

“I… I don’t know. He never got it to me.”

“Sure he did,” she said with a curious tone.

“What are you talking about?” he asked.

“The email,” she responded.

“What email? What are you talking about Dorothy?”

She looked puzzled.

“The one he sent you yesterday. It’s on our computer. It came from him and was labeled something about a new script.”

He dropped his Blackberry at the base of the steps and ran off down the steps to the study below. He flipped open his laptop atop his desk and logged on, opening his email account as quickly as it would respond. His eyes scanned down the list of emails and there it was. But, that didn’t make sense. He never mentioned sending the manuscript electronically. This wasn’t like him. He opened it. There was a short message and a copy of his script attached. The message read;

Hey Coop – Hang on to this. I’ll bring you a hard copy at lunch tomorrow. I’ve got a weird feeling this may have upset someone – feel like I’ve been followed over the last day or so. No need to worry, just thought I’d forward you a copy for safekeeping. See you at lunch. Thanks again for the O’s tickets. – C.M.

He opened the attachment to realize that, in fact, it was his new manuscript and clicked print from the menu bar. He sat there for about fifteen minutes or so reloading bundle after bundle of paper into his printer as the previous stack he’d loaded ran out. The darn thing just wouldn’t print fast enough. He pounded the desktop in frustration. Just fewer than four hundred pages of typed script printed out. Dorothy came in several times asking about the script, but he ignored her questions. He simply read. He read right through the night. As the sun began to rise, he put down the final page and leaned back in his chair.

CHaPTeR 16

The slapdash stack of pages lay on top of his desktop as he scanned through sequential pages, not finding immediate answers as to who would have wanted to harm Minchum. The story was right up his usual alley. A thriller with a barrage of twist and turns through a nightmarish tale of an American business man who stumbles across a plot of anti-American Islamic terrorist cells planning an attack on U.S. soil aimed at the President. It was a great story, incorporating elements of investigation, anticipation, suspense and victory, but still brought no clarity – no insight.

His nerves had been shattered since the explosion and the story took him into a world where he forgot of the past day’s events and put him into a realm of intrigue and international conflict, helping him step aside from the vast emotions of having seen a close friend killed right before him. It made him feel like Minchum was sill there with him, almost like he was reading the story to him like a father to a son.

He stood up from his chair, stretching his arms and legs after staying put, seated in the desk chair the last eight hours without moving. Silence was a welcome sound to Coopers ears, allowing him to sort through all the thoughts bouncing around in his head. Dorothy had not woken up yet, but would most likely be up in the next half hour. She never seemed to sleep later than sunrise, almost as if day and dark were her on-and-off switches. Cooper trudged back up the stairs to the kitchen, walked over to the coffee maker and swapped out the filter with a new one. Filling it with new grinds and turning it on, the Colombian roast aroma began to fill the room. He walked over to the front door, opened it and grabbed the morning paper resting on his front step. He was surprised. This had to be the first time the paperboy had actually gotten the paper all the way up the steps to his door. Usually he had to trek down into the front yard in is sleep-ware to gather it – just what his neighbors loved seeing first thing in the morning he thought. It lay just in front of his feet outside the doorstep, wrapped in a yellow plastic rain sleeve. Grabbing it up off the doorstep, he backed into the living room, closing the door in front of him. He turned around and pulled it from its sleeve, revealing the front-page cover story. He slowly walked toward the smell of the brewing coffee in the kitchen when he stopped dead in his tracks.

As he read the front story, his eyes scanned the text with increasing speed, stopping to re-read a couple phrases here and there to make sure he’d comprehended them right the first time.

“Holy crap!” he said to himself out loud. “I don’t believe it… I don’t friggin’ believe this!” He stared at the front page as he fumbled for his empty mug. “What are the chances?”

He threw the paper down on the countertop and filled up his mug, adding some milk to the mix. He took a sip, marched over to the television and switched it on, looking for the early morning news. Flipping through a few different channels – all seemingly having gone to commercials simultaneously – he found one covering it.

Yesterday evening, only hours after Minchum was killed, an apparent explosion rocked a submerged sewage dam in the Washington Channel near the familiar Tidal Basin and Jefferson Memorial. It was an overflow control valve between the Basin and its source, the Potomac. In years past, the Potomac had risen under storm surges and caused major flooding in and around governmental buildings along the Mall. DC officials had siphoned some of the District’s funding to build it in the mid-eighties to control further risks of downtown flooding.

Apparently, the cause of the explosion was unknown, but all underground tunnels in the vicinity were completely flooded and the surging water had moved swiftly away from the dam location in all directions, causing metro closures, sewage back-ups and even lifting man-hole covers with surging river water from below. The water had reached across downtown D.C. and the entire Mall area. Streets were now closed off and emergency crews were frantically trying to control the flood zone and repair the underground dam. Reports of flooding were coming in from all around the Mall area, including the White House property.

Cooper stared at the screen in confused bewilderment. To any other observer, this mess may have seemed trivial and only a problem for a few, but Cooper had other thoughts about it and began considering the ramifications if he was right.

He ran back downstairs and grabbed the manuscript off the desk. Tucking the heavy mass of paper under his arm, he hurried back upstairs and back to the TV screen, catching his breath as he set the stack on the floor. He quickly flipped through it, letting his memory guide him through the story he’d just read. Scanning the text carefully, he stopped on a few pages about half way through and began reading them over again.

Dorothy, now barely awake, came down the steps from the third floor in her silk robe and pink terry cloth slippers, yawning as she waddled her way down the steep steps. “Morning,” she said with a raspy subtle voice. Cooper didn’t respond, he just kept reading, anxiously sliding his finger across the text.

“You sleep at all?” she asked between gaping yawns.

“No,” he said as he continued reading the text before him.

“I’m worried about you. You’ve been through a rough couple of days and going without any sleep will only make matters worse. You need some rest.”

“Sshh!” he gestured with his index finger to give him a minute.

She stood there watching him a few seconds, then walked into the kitchen, dragging her fleece-lined slippers across the polished hardwood floor. Cooper hated it when she did that. The sound irritated him. She sat down on one of kitchen stools and poured herself a steaming cup of coffee, then turned back around to look at him. He sat silent as he scanned the text.

“What’s got your attention?” she asked.

“I… I’m not sure yet, but something’s up.”

“What do you mean? Isn’t that the script he sent you?”

“Yes, but…”

“But what?” she said as she tipped up her mug for a sip.

He pointed to the television screen where the news was still showing footage of the flooding happening around the mall. The channel correspondent now stood at the corner of Constitution and 14th. In the backdrop Dorothy saw the manhole cover popping up and down like a clam’s mouth as water surged from below, washing into the streets around it. It wasn’t enough to stop traffic, but enough to lift the heavy manhole cover off its surely seal.

“What’s going on now?” she asked, trying to draw his attention. “What’s with all the water?”

Cooper continued reading, not reacting to her questions. She coughed abruptly and he finally looked up. He could sense her interest in talking.

“An explosion blew open a submerged damn by the Washington Marina and water from the Potomac is flooding all underground tunnels and sewage channels. The sewage back-up has now reached in a circumference from the State Department, all the way up past the D.C. Convention Center and even as far east as the Capital Building. The sheer volume from the Potomac and the hole is creating water pressure that was backing up all underground passages in the area and it’s still spreading. ”

“Looks like a mess. What caused the explosion?”

“They don’t know yet,” he said still staring at the pages in the manuscript. “But something’s wrong.”

“What do you mean something’s wrong?” she asked.

He grabbed a handful of pages from the script and stood up from the floor suddenly, marching over to her and handing them to her. The look on his face made Dorothy a little nervous.

“Here, read this,” he said.

“Why? What’s the matter Coop?”

“Just read it.”

She took the pages from his hand and set down her coffee, laying the sheets down on the countertop in front of her. She began to read. She wasn’t sure of Cooper’s intentions, but played along. After a few minutes she looked up and turned to the television set, grabbing the remote from the counter and turning up the volume. Cooper now starred at her, waiting for a response. He knew exactly what she was thinking. Another minute passed before she spoke.

“You don’t think …”

“Just like it says right there in the pages. What are the chances?” he asked

“No way!” she said in disbelief.

“This is no coincidence Dorothy,” he said coldly.

“Did you read the whole thing last night?”

He rubbed his eyes, “Yep.”

“Well, tell me!”

Cooper began a lengthy recap of Minchum’s manuscript as Dorothy sat hanging on his every word. The further into it he went, the larger her eyes grew. Her face went pale. About an hour passed until he had given her the whole story, chapter by chapter. Cooper often did this for her. She wasn’t a big thriller reader, but loved to hear about the books he dealt with on a daily basis. Her enthusiasm varied depending on which author he was currently working with. She preferred literary fiction. He’d read their books and then recant them to her in the form of a short story. It was one of their ways of spending quality time together.

“Coop, you’ve gotta let someone know! I don’t know if we’re dealing with a weird string of coincidences here or if we’re the first to know what’s coming next.”

“I’m. I’m not sure what to do,” he replied.

“Well, you better figure it out quickly, we can’t afford not to. I just don’t get it. How could he know about all this? Why him? It just doesn’t make any sense!”

“I’m just as confused by it all as you are.”

“Well…, who should we tell? The police? The FBI?” Dorothy wondered.

“Well, I think the best thing to do is call Detective Edwards and tell him the story. We can see if he thinks there’s something to worry about. Plus, he seems to think I’m involved somehow and this might get him off my back.”

“I don’t think that’s the greatest idea. He may think this has something to do with you,” she responded.

“But I have nothing to hide!”

“Here’s a little wake-up call for you. You are involved! Whether you like it or not,” she said back to him.

“But how?”

“Minchum’s dead and you were attacked, now this. You’re involved alright.”

“But…”

“You can’t afford to figure this out without some help, it’s getting too dangerous. C’mon Coop… think about it!” she said.

“Alright… I’m calling him!” he said, cutting her off and heading to the phone.

Just as he reached down to pick up the receiver, it rang, startling him. He looked back to Dorothy, wondering who would be calling so early. Looking down at the caller ID, he saw Fairfax County PD as the caller on the miniature backlit screen.

“Okay, this is getting weird,” he said looking at the screen, then picked up the receiver. “Detective?” he said.

“Uh, yeah… Cooper?” the detective answered sounding a little surprised.

“Detective, I have something you may want to know about.”

“Cooper, I need to ask you to come down to the station.”

“I found Minchum’s…wait, what? The station?! Why?” Cooper had forgotten.

“We just need to figure a few things out. I just finished up in Alexandria at the bombsite and I want to hear all about what you remember. Can you come down here?”

“Well, I wanted to…”

“Cooper, either you come down here or I’ll have to send out some men in blue. What’s it gonna be?”

“Men in blue?! Come on, that’s not necessary. Let me get cleaned-up and I’ll come down,” he said a little shocked at Edward’s seriousness.

“Fine. See you in about an hour,” Edwards replied.

“Fine.”

CHaPTeR 17

The four men now sat at a table atop the Rooftop Terrace restaurant at the Hotel Washington. Their table positioned next to the railing overlooking 15^th Street where the morning city traffic thickened below. They watched as daybreak commuters weaved in and out of roped–off intersections where flooding had not yet receded. The spot was perfect for their attack. It wouldn’t be long now. A green and white awning covered the patio and shaded them from the bright morning sunlight. The restaurant head just opened and there was only one other couple seated outside, a few tables away. The table dressings danced gently in the subtle breeze blowing from the south side of the terrace.

The White House, a bright white estate with facades of elaborate columns and ornamental floral windows sat below, only about a block away to the west. It was a beacon of the west – a symbol of democracy. The south lawn stretched about two hundred yards towards the Ellipse and the Washington Monument. A swimming pool and tennis courts were barely in sight, slightly blocked by the large compound leaves of the Box Elder trees scattered across the lawn. Snipers were clearly visible sitting on folding chairs upon the rooftop, appearing to be sunbathing in their black BDU’s and bulletproof vests. Men in black suits and dark glasses stood staggered around the grounds in key positions, some clearly visible and others in the shadows.

News cameras and journalists were beginning to amass in the north lawn, lighting discs and a maze of power cords completely covered the driveway from where they were gathering. A small stage and podium were set up just to their left at which all cameras were pointing. The crowd was getting lively as they prepped for the event. Today was the day they had waited for. The President would be holding a press conference to announce his new nominee for Director of the CIA – a position that had opened-up last month when John McCloud had resigned. He’d stepped-down after being investigated for misuse and misconduct of department resources for personal gain. He was indicted for utilizing eavesdropping devices to listen in on conversations between his wife and a co-worker at the State Department on private lines, thinking she had been seeing him behind his back. One of his staff had leaked the information to a reporter and he was forced to resign. The story was front-page news from the Washington Post to the National Enquirer, making a mockery of an already feeble intelligence community.

The press was eager to hear who would be the Presidents new nominee. The position had been open for almost a month with no hint of any candidate from the White House until today. This was the day Ahmir and Nahjid had waited for. It was the perfect venue for their attack – the President and his new head-of-CIA at the same location and lots of press coverage. It couldn’t have been more perfect.

An attractive Asian waitress walked over and asked them if they were ready to order and Ahmir requested coffee and oatmeal for himself and the other three. She bowed slightly with a pleasant smile acknowledging their order. She turned and walked back to the kitchen to collect their breakfast. Nahjid watched her walk away – the split in the back of her skirt exposing plenty of leg. Ahmir nudged him with his elbow, allowing Nahjid to re-focus and he quickly looked away. It was now ten-thirty and brunch was a first for them. They would need the nourishment.

Ahmir pulled his chair up close to the table and leaned in. The three others followed suit, leaning in as he did. Squinting from the glare, he looked deeply into the others eyes, making them a little uneasy.

“The time is near,” he said softly. “You have again succeeded in your task. You have demonstrated your faith to Islam and shall be rewarded for it. But our mission is not complete – we have only just begun. Soon we will bring America to its knees in the name of Allah. We will complete the work of others before us and punish American sinners – their greed and ignorance shall shadow their pride, helping us renew the faith of our people. You are true soldiers of Mohammed.” He paused for a minute to ponder his next thoughts. “You have taken care of Minchum and we can act on the manuscript. We are now free to carry out the plan without interruptions. Your work in blowing the damn was just as we intended. This will prevent any underground escape for our target. Massalah thanks you and shall reward your families as promised,” Nahjid interjected.

He was referring to the pseudo-support that was given to the families of those who fought for Massalah and the jihadist’s cause. A rudimentary form of family benefits package was often used to attract new militias members. These days, terrorist organizations operated more and more like large corporations; providing employment benefits to its members, establishing major underground supply chains, sheltered banking, money routing and sizeable pay to their members and significant benefits to their immediate families for their loyalty – suicide missions were the most lucrative.

Water flowed through the vast network of underground sewers, drainage tunnels, subterranean walkways, metro tunnels and the even the less known layout of the underground White House. The east bank of the District would be submerged for at least a week. Due to the enormous backpressure created by the Potomac, city maintenance workers would have their hands full the next few days simply trying to block the hole created by the explosion. The blast had baffled city officials. Inspecting the scene had been virtually impossible due it being submerged under heavy currents of river water. Doing any kind of investigation into the cause of the blast would have to wait until the dam was repaired and the water cleared and by then, any remaining evidence would be washed away.

Massalah’s plan relied heavily on keeping his target above ground, cutting off any possible underground escape routes and having blown the dam, it allowed them about forty-eight hours of final preparation for their plan before the city would recover. City resources would be inundated to aid in the recovery, creating a handy by-product of their work, keeping the element of surprise.

The two men nodded repeatedly without speaking, smiling politely as if to please Ahmir and Nahjid through subtle gesturing. They were younger and seemingly the pawns of the operation. New recruits from Pakistan’s tribal region Taliban terrorist training camps, they had served Massalah once before. Three months earlier, they were sent across the border into Afghanistan to launch attacks against allied forces and the new Afghan police in Kabul and the volatile Takhar region. Now they had been sent to Washington through the undermanned Mexican border to carry out Massalah’s new agenda.

After having fled from Afghanistan in 2001, Massalah had found refuge in the foothills of the Pakistani Himalayan region of the Kalasha Valley and begun rebuilding the Taliban terrorist training camps, eager to demonstrate their resilience to the American occupation of their homeland. Although most of his assets had been frozen by the American intelligence efforts after 9/11, he found new funding sources in fronting for asphalt and cement companies in Pakistan and Kazakhstan. This had worked for him before. He’d used the same technique to raise money for his “holy war” in the Gaza Strip about ten years earlier. Having begun his jihad as he rose through the ranks of a militant faction of the PLO, he had made new alliances with Al-Queda and the Taliban.

Taking on a false name, he’d become the active middleman between Allied contractees and Pakistani contractors seeking to win multi-million dollar deals for rebuilding and repaving the roadways and infrastructure of Kabul and other areas of Afghanistan, creating a new funding route by way of the American dollar. Huge reconstruction jobs were being handed out to the lowest bidders around Kabul and other industrialized cities in Pakistan and Massalah had become the primary liaison between those offering the jobs and those seeking to win the bids, collecting a handsome commission based on a percentage of the total contract awarded. The concrete companies were never given a choice on paying out this commission. Massalah had become known around Pakistan and surrounding Sunni regions as the one who could find the big contracts and they could only be acquired through him and his people. They quickly learned that bypassing his services would be detrimental to their business, even their families. It was working beautifully. American taxpayers were unknowingly funding middlemen that were business fronts for the new Taliban insurgency and the system had sustained Massalah’s causes for the last three years.

He’d come close to being killed by a US smart bomb attack while in hiding in the Afghan northern mountains in 2003, but had escaped the destiny of his two officers by having trekked to a nearby town for supplies just before they hit the bunker with pin-point, laser-guided accuracy. The bunker was obliterated, his men killed and his supply chain broken. His resilience and decree had grown since the attack, as did his exposure on the “most wanted” lists of Interpol, the NSA, the Department of Homeland Security and the CIA, but was now empowered by the assault on his men, one of which was his cousin.

Over the last three years he had re-established his training camps in western Pakistan and northern Palestine, amassed a new army of faithful Wahabist and PLO soldiers and had succeeded in planting numerous cells throughout southern Europe and three major U.S. cities. Carefully managing the cells through different silent lines of communications, Massalah focused on the cells now in Washington, D.C. They would bring the ultimate blow to the Americans and become heroes of their Sunni and Palestinian people, reassuring their plight against western influence in Israel, Kuwait, Afghanistan, Saudi Arabia and Iraq. The West was filtering in to the Muslim heritage – a disgrace to the teaching of the Koran. From Tehran to Jerusalem, the Western tentacles were changing the traditionalist thought of what used to be an ancient purist faith and Massalah would fight in the name of Allah to drive these influences out of their homelands. They were solid in their convictions. They would not be distracted.

The men ate their oatmeal and swiftly downed their coffee, almost in a coordinated fashion. They sat back in their chairs and stared at one another in silence for what seemed to be three or four minutes. Their expressions began to change. A look of determination came over them. Ahmir then nodded to Nahjid, who then turned to the other two and nodded to them. All four immediately rose from the table and walked towards the innards of the restaurant. The couple, a few tables away, were speaking softly to each other over their omelets as they walked by. Ahmir was in front as they marched into the inner dining area that was still empty. The lunch crowd would not come for another hour.

There was no restaurant staff in sight as the four men pushed through the kitchen swing doors, pulling handguns from under their coats and shoving them right into the foreheads of the closest staff member in the kitchen. They first yelled words in Farsi, then in English. No one was to move or they would be shot. Their waitress was the closest, then the cook and the restaurant manager. A second cook screamed when she saw what was happening, but was quickly silenced by a sharp blow to the head from the handle of Ahmir’s pistol. She fell to the tile floor as the other staff members shuttered in shock from the sudden display of violence. Upon seeing her drop, they quickly quieted and gave the four men their complete attention, trembling in fear. Ahmir, with his gun now on the waitress’s forehead, yelled out.

“Get undressed!. Now!.. All of you!”

They stood there motionless, still trying to comprehend the situation they now found themselves in.

“Now, or someone will die!” he yelled again in broken English.

The men stepped back a few steps from their hostages, but kept their pistols up close to their faces. The staff began to move, removing their uniforms piece by piece in between fearful sobs.

“Hurry up!” Ahmir yelled again, knowing that maintaining fear meant maintaining control. It was a vital rule. The waitress removed her smock and began unbuttoning her blouse, shaking uncontrollably. Ahmir watched as her blouse fell to the floor, her black bra now exposed to him. He meant to look away but he hadn’t seen a woman like this in years and couldn’t help himself. She removed her black cotton-twill pants and covered herself with her arms, still shaking and sobbing in horror. The others were now undressed and staring at Ahmir, awaiting his next command. He motioned to Nahjid to go the door and lock it. This would keep any further people from entering the restaurant. He was gone for a few seconds, then returned into the kitchen and lifted his weapon back into the face of the cook.

“How many staff do you have here right now?” Ahmir asked the manager.

“Only us,” he replied. “Others will be here in an hour.”

“Only four!” Ahmir replied forcefully.

“Yes, we start the morning with a small staff, lunch time we have more.”

“Good!” Ahmir motioned to one of the other two men and he tucked his weapon into the back of his pants and reached into his coat pocket, pulling out a roll of duct tape. Moving around the kitchen, he taped their hands, one by one behind their backs, slapping a short piece over their mouths. The waitress whimpered as he stuck it to her lips, looking down across her slender physique.

“Now take them!” Nahjid said, pointing towards the back of the kitchen. The two others gathered them up and moved them back and stood them in front of the large stainless-steel freezer door. He lifted the latch and pulled the door open. A rush of misted cold air met with their faces and bodies, causing them to gasp at the sudden rush of freezing cold. He pushed them in one-by-one until all three were in the center of the freezer, staring back at them in sheer terror and slammed the door shut, locking the latch back in place. Bending their arms upward at the elbow, guns now pointing at the ceiling, they re-joined the others.

“We must be quick! The two outside must be taken care of,” Nahjid said.

After a few short minutes of discussion in Farsi, Ahmir moved his hands behind his back and walked out onto the terrace outside and right up to their table. They looked up at him and smiled curiously. He returned the smile.

“Might I ask you to come with me?” he said.

They looked at him in a puzzled manner.

“Please,” he said as he brought his arms from behind his back, showing them his weapon. They hesitantly stood up from their chairs with instant expressions of fear and bewilderment.

“Follow me to the kitchen,” he said very convincingly.

They nervously tottered towards the inner restaurant when the man suddenly turned and reached for Ahmir’s weapon, grabbing the cold steel barrel in his hands as he spun around and clamped Ahmir’s arm under his, keeping the weapon pointed away from him. Ahmir found himself staring at the back of the man’s head when he saw him lean forward and recoil back quickly, smashing the back of his skull into Ahmir’s face. He stumbled back in a shock of pain. A sudden sharp, cold sensation popped from his nose as he recoiled in pain. Blood dripped from his nostrils and the pain quickly blurred his eyesight. The man charged him again, but was abruptly stopped by a silenced 9mm round striking him square in the forehead. He fell limp to the terrace floor – his wife shrieking in dismay. A second shot zipped out of the silenced barrel and into her chest – shattering her front bra clip as her support cups snapped loose and back around her sides – dropping her to the floor beside him. She gasped for air but blood flooded her lungs with a horrid gurgling sound. Her white blouse changed from white to red in seconds. Ahmir regained his composure and looked back into the kitchen, seeing Nahjid standing with his gun pointed out onto the terrace, the tip of his barrel still smoking.

“I said no killing!” Ahmir said.

“I had to stop him!” Nahjid responded, “and she was screaming!”

Ahmir shook his head and turned to look at their bodies. Looking over them, he motioned for the others to come to him.

“Come, we must hide them and clean up this ridiculous mess.”

They drug the cooling bodies from the terrace into the back kitchen, threw open the freezer door and dragged their bodies in with the others. Fearful moaning came from the waitress and a cook from under their taped mouths, now shivering uncontrollably as they clasped their two bodies together for warmth. The cook had imagined this moment in his head several times before, but certainly not in such a context. Slamming the door shut and checking the latch, they returned to the inner restaurant where they sat down at a table. A couple of seconds past before Ahmir spoke.

“Give me the phone,” he said to Nahjid.

Nahjid reached into his pocket and pulled out the pre-paid cell and handed it across the table. Ahmir flipped it open and dialed. Within seconds, a voice answered on the other end of the line.

“Bring them now,” Ahmir told the voice and then snapped the flip-phone shut, shoving it into his coat pocket. They stood up from the table and marched down the hall toward the elevator shaft, looking up to the floor indicator dial atop the two stainless steel doors. They stared at the illuminated number. It moved to the second, third, fourth, fifth, until it reached the eleventh floor where they stood. The doors slowly slid open revealing a dark-skinned man dressed as they were, holding an unusually large shiny black case on wheels. He pulled it out of the elevator behind him as if de-boarding an aircraft. The case was a hard, black plastic transport case with sharp white-stenciled lettering on its top that read, Property of the U.S.Army. It had a pair of combination locks on either end, but they were damaged, looking as though they had been forced open. The man set the case upright in front of the elevator, nodded to the others and backed into the elevator as the doors shut in front of him, leaving the others standing around the case. Nahjid grabbed the handle and pulled it down the hall and out onto the terrace, laying it on the floor near the railing where they had eaten. He chuckled a little. He found the irony a little humorous, the leader of the free world dying at the hands of his own munitions.

From their point of view, they could see numerous goings-on. About a block north of them was a crowded intersection of aggravated commuters behind the wheels of their gaudy, over-priced luxury sedans and city sewer workers who had learned the art of ignoring those better off than themselves. The drivers laid on their horns in irritation while men in neon orange jumper suits crawled around the manholes searching for way to fight the flooded sewers. Careless couriers on battered carbon-fiber bike frames whizzed in and out of the congested intersection of jammed traffic and yellow “men at work” markers as if navigating the last turn in the Tour de France. A block to their south, the west-bound lanes of Pennsylvania Avenue were now blockaded by Presidential security detail, most likely Secret Service as the press conference approached. It was almost eleven o’clock – it would only be about thirty minutes until the he would be exposed.

They kneeled down over the case, speaking back and forth in jumbled dialects of supposed Farsi as they unlocked the case and threw it open. The case lay there, exposing a MK153 multi-purpose rocket launcher encased in a thick insulating layer of black sponge foam. They were aware the HEDP or High Explosive, Dual Purpose launcher could penetrate 12 inches of concrete with ease and was well suited for both hard and soft targets. Weighing only a few pounds, its portability is only hindered by the case it travels in. The men looked at it for a minute, admiring their heisted loot before proceeding. Leaving it in the case, they pulled a smaller secondary case from within the larger one. Opening that one exposed the two foam-encased projectiles, their tips painted in blood-red paint, forecasting the fate of their soon-to-be target. The men stood up around the case, as if almost intimidated by the physical and theoretical power of what lay at their feet.

CHaPTeR 18

Cooper climbed into the driver’s seat of his Beemer and started her up.

Her purr echoed off the garage walls. It was 9:30am according to his dashboard read-out. Dorothy stood in the doorway from the garage to the hallway. Her robe hung open, revealing her lace nighty lying snug against her soft tan skin. Although she looked tired, she had a certain appeal to him standing there in the doorway. He knew she wasn’t every man’s dream, but she always did it for him. Wearing a concerned looked on her face, she raised her hand to waive goodbye. He waived back through the windshield and shifted the car into reverse, backing out of the garage and drove away.

He headed north on highway I-395 to Arlington. The traffic was starting to thin out from the morning rush hour, but still slow moving. Reaching up to a button above his windshield, he opened his sunroof to enjoy the crisp morning air while shuffling down the road. Shortly after, he was forced to reconsider. A blacked-out Escallade with large chromed spinning rims had pulled in next to him in the congested traffic. The loud rap lyrics and thundering base spilling from its half-open windows was enough to jar his kidneys. He looked over to the driver but couldn’t make him out due to the dark-tinted windows. Irritated, he reached back up to the button and closed the glass roof. Trying repeatedly to shuffle into a new position away from the pounding base, he couldn’t seem to distance himself enough from the obnoxious attention-seeker.

After a few more agonizing minutes he reached his exit and merged off the highway, enjoying the relief from the pounding, insufferable rhythms. Making his way through downtown Arlington, he turned left onto Kensington St. and from there, saw the numerous county cruisers parked in front of the police headquarters. As he pulled into the parking garage across the street, he noticed a blacked-out Crown Victoria parked to the right of the cruisers. Standard Federal-issue. Cooper wondered what a Federal car was doing at a local police station.

He drove up the ramp to the second level, parked in a spot near the front – between two other black-and-whites and headed to the elevator. Making his way across the busy street and into the station’s main entrance, he noticed the front foyer was amiss of people, with only an attending officer at the reception desk. Quite the opposite of what Cooper expected. Having seen television shows and read numerous novels which consistently described police stations as crowded, busy, even noisy environments; bustling with officers in blue, rowdy detainees and underdressed hookers shuffling around in an array of confused mayhem – phone’s ringing in the background and a hot-under-the-collar police chief waiting to tear into his screw-up detective. This station was pristine, almost hospital like, quiet and devoid of chaos of any sort. He casually approached the officer behind the front desk with a subtle smile, feeling a little uneasy having never been in a police station before. Curiosity and anxiousness were battling within his brain.

“Good morning. I am here to see Detective Edwards,” he told the officer.

“Cooper Andrews?”

“Uh, yes.” Cooper answered, bewildered that he knew his name. The officer picked up the phone receiver behind the desk and dialed an extension.

“Mr. Andrews is here,” he said into the phone. “Yes sir”

He put down the receiver and pointed down a short corridor without making further eye contact. A commonality among officers assigned behind desks which Cooper had picked-up on before. Unless a particular officer was out on the street, they had little in the way of people skills – almost looking uncomfortable in common office-type situations. Cooper looked down the hall and saw Detective Edwards step out of a doorway, looking back down the corridor at him.

“Down here Cooper,” the Detective said waiving his hand.

Cooper thanked the indifferent officer at the desk and headed towards Edwards. He reached out his handed and greeted Edwards with a handshake.

“Good morning!”

“Come on in Cooper.”

“Detective. I need to talk to you about something. I received a …,” he stopped short as he entered the room.

It was a small room with cinderblock walls painted grey to mask their rough appearance. It was devoid of any pictures of decorations on the walls. It was obviously not a room where they greeted those in better standings than Cooper. It was filled with what appeared to be listening and recording devices facing a one-way mirror looking into a second, smaller, windowless room. Two other men in dark suits stood to Cooper’s right, startling him a little as they came into view. They looked like twins. Their attire reeked of authority and their demeanor was of equal presence. They looked official, no-doubt the drivers of the Federal car outside. Edwards followed him in and closed the door behind them.

“I’m sorry, you were saying…?” Edwards remarked.

“Oh, nothing. It can wait. I didn’t realize we had company with us.”

He wanted to tell Edwards about the script, but was spooked from the idea when he saw the other men. He’d have to tell him later.

“Cooper, these are Special Agents Smith and Williams from the FBI. They wanted to sit in on our conversation if that’s okay with you?”

“Uh… Sure!” he said with hesitation. “Anything I can do to help.”

Detective Edwards had received a call from a man identifying himself as Special Agent in Charge, or SAIC, from the FBI only an hour before Cooper arrived. He requested that two of his agents on the bombing case be allowed to interrogate Mr. Anderson, thus extending a simple courtesy between departments. Edwards knew well that they could do it whether he allowed them in or not. He told him that by sheer coincidence, he was on his way to the station right now. The SAIC told him he would send over his agents right away. Sure enough, they arrived only thirty minutes after the call.

“Why don’t you have a seat in here and we’ll get started,” Edwards continued.

“In here?” Cooper responded, now nervous. His body temperature jumped, causing beads of sweat to bubble on his brow. The room was clearly designed for intense questioning and Cooper began to feel the heat. He reluctantly entered the room with Edwards and Agent Smith in tow.

“Can we get you a cup of coffee Cooper?” Edwards said, trying to ease

his nerves.

“Sure, I’d love one. Black is fine.”

Special Agent Williams had remained in the other room behind the glass-screening window. Smith motioned to Williams, who then leaned to the side, sticking his head through the door.

“Can we get Mr. Alexander a cup of coffee?” Smith asked.

“Sure,” Williams replied, closing the door behind him in a toady manner.

Agent Smith and Detective Edwards rounded the table and pulled out the two metal fold-up chairs out from under the table. Sitting down, they motioned for Cooper to do the same. The light had been dim when they first entered the room, but Edwards had flipped on a second strand of overhead fluorescent lights when they settled in.

“How are you holding up?” Edwards asked.

“Ok considering,” Cooper answered.

“How’s Dorothy doing?”

“About the same. She’s worried.”

“Understandably so,” Edwards replied.

Williams re-entered the room with a hot cup of coffee in his hand, reaching it out towards Cooper. He took it and thanked him. Agent Williams walked back out the door, closing it behind him, then took a seat behind the one-way mirror looking back in on them. He couldn’t see him, but he knew he was there.

“Cooper, in order to get our facts straight, we need to have you tell us about your last few days, starting with your attack at the metro the other night.”

“Sure,” Cooper replied.

“Uh, Detective Edwards, we’d actually like to hear about what his travels were like, even before his incident coming home,” Agent Smith interjected.

“Alright. Okay with you Cooper?” Edwards asked.

“Sure.”

“Be aware, we will be recording our conversation both on audio and on video… just procedure,” Edwards added.

“Fine,” he said, shuffling in his seat, feeling ill at ease. Edwards and Smith observed him closely, watching for any unusual body language, out-of-place reactions or shifty behavior. During investigations, authorities were trained to watch such things as much as listen to their story. Stories could be altered or manufactured, but body language was innate, like a hardwired code within our genes, becoming signals of telltale-hidden truths and ill-disguised lies.

Cooper began recanting the events of the book expo he’d attended and how he’d simply interacted with fellow agents and several authors, including Minchum.

“Did you receive anything from anyone? Maybe from Minchum?” Smith asked.

“No, just the usual networking and conversation,” Cooper replied. “He was supposed to get me his newest manuscript, but we never got the chance,” Cooper responded.

Then the story began. Cooper spilled out all the details of the last few days in chronological order. Smith and Edwards sat back in their chairs without interrupting him, allowing the story to flow out in sequence. Cooper began his story in a restrained, somewhat nervous voice. As his story developed, his voice grew louder and he became more animated, almost feeling as if he was back in the situations he was describing. His details of the explosion and the scarred, tattered body of Minchum hanging out the driver’s door of his car were verging the excessive. The scent of burned flesh and gasoline creating a stench comparable to nothing he’d ever experienced before. Injured pedestrians and debris scattered everywhere. He remembered it looking like a war zone, as if a “smartbomb” had been lazered-in from above, reeking havoc on the world around him. The explosion had not only scattered shrapnel in all directions, but had left a small crater on the street under the car, causing the pavement to crack and collapse beneath it. Detective Edwards stopped him a couple of times to ask details of the debris, the types of burns Minchums body had, whether he had noticed anything out of the ordinary before the bomb went off. He threw in a few questions about Minchums demeanor when he got there. Cooper told them a little about Minchums concerns that he may have been recently followed and described the details, just how Minchum had described them to him. Cooper continued downloading his story when Smith interrupted him.

“How did you two meet?” he interjected. “You and Minchum I mean.”

“I’m sorry?” Cooper was caught off-guard by the side step.

“Describe how you met, I’m just curious,” Smith repeated.

“Well, we met in Paris at a publishing expo. My publishing house signed him to a contract and I was his agent.”

“Was it always business?” Smith replied.

“Not really, we seemed to have a lot in common and we hit it off. We became friends of sorts. Our relationship was kind of a cross between a mentor-mentee and a father-son type relationship.”

“Go on.”

“We were bound by a publishing contract, but we seemed to have developed a good friendship. We occasionally met for lunch and social gatherings in the past. What are you getting at?” Cooper asked.

“Nothing really, just curious about Minchum behavior when you sat down for lunch. Was he acting funny at all?”

“Funny how? What do you mean?”

“Anything out of character?” Edwards replied.

“He seemed a little uncomfortable when telling me about how he thought he’d been followed, but moved the conversation along quickly and seemed to be fine after that,” Cooper answered.

“Why would he think he was being followed?” Edwards asked.

“Well, after my attack, then finding out my attacker was murdered, we’ve felt a little uneasy about the situations surrounding us. I was supposed to meet him in Baltimore for the Orioles game the day after my assault, but didn’t make it for obvious reasons. I talked to him on his cell on his way home from the game and he sounded fine. He only told me he thought he was followed when we met for lunch yesterday.”

“Nothing else?” McCant asked.

“No, nothing… wait! There was something.”

“What”

“He did mention to me how he had been virtually harassed by a man claiming to work for a publisher about a month or so ago.”

“Harassed how?” McCant asked.

“He claimed this man had called him repeatedly asking for his newest manuscript and that he’d be interested in meeting with him about a deal. He said the guy wouldn’t leave him alone.”

“What kind of deal?”

“I don’t know. He didn’t go into great detail. Only telling me how he’d denied the man any sort of rendezvous and asked him to call his publisher for anything more. After that, he never heard from him again.”

“Do you know who this man was? How he had come across Minchums manuscript? Anything like that?”

“No, other than him mentioning that a small group of young Muslim men had given him a lot of attention about three months ago in Paris, at a book expo, at which he did a book signing event. He said they asked a lot about his book and about any new ones he was working on. He described them as persistent and very curious about what Minchum was now writing. Minchum told me it was odd, but not unusual for him to attract attention from certain Muslim groups, seeing that many of his previous novels incorporated a lot of research on Islam and the occasionally ethnic generalizations one commonly found in fictional commercial novels. Some were angered by how he had portrayed them and they would sometimes seek him out to confront him.”

“Did he ever get to know any of his people?”

“No but…”

“Did he ever use any Muslims acquaintances for his research?” McCant added.

“I think there was one. But…” Cooper tried to go on.

“Who!” Edwards replied, sounding bothered.

“I’m not sure of his name. Something like Massan, Massir, I can’t remember exactly.”

“We need you to think, Cooper.” McCant said. “Do you know where to find this man?”

“Impossible. He’s dead.” Cooper answered.

“What do you mean?”

“Minchum had told me how Massan… or whatever his name was, was killed in a car accident on the peripherique – Paris’s name for its beltway – about six months ago. He was a small-time author I think. Minchum told he had written a couple of smaller books, but wasn’t having much success. That’s all I know.” Cooper responded, not realizing that any of this would be pertinent to Minchum’s killing.

Just then McCants cell began to ring. Strangely, so did Williams behind the glass. McCant answered it as he stood from the table and moved to a corner of the room, his back to Edwards and Cooper. He answered and appeared to be listening to the caller for several seconds before finally responding with a “Yes sir,” then hung up. Williams was on his for another second or two and then he hung up. McCant leaned down to Detective Edwards and murmured something in his ear and left the room. Williams followed him out the second door and they were gone.

CHAPTER 14

Cooper sat back in his chair, feeling some pressure diminish with their sudden departure. He looked to Edwards who seemed to be recollecting himself. He also appeared to be intimidated by the other two. He straightened in his chair and refocused on Cooper.

“Sorry Cooper. They had to get going. Something at the home office apparently.”

“No problem. They had me on edge,” he said.

“Yeah, me too,” Edwards replied.

“Detective.”

“Yeah Cooper, what’s on you mind?”

“There’s something else.”

“What’s that?” he replied sounding a little curious to the remark.

“I received something from Minchum.”

“You what? He’s dead.” He responded in a specious tone.

“Yeah, but he sent it to me two days ago.”

“What?”

“His manuscript for his new book.” Cooper said.

“I’m not sure I follow you Cooper.” He replied.

“I got it a few days ago, but that’s not the issue.”

“What do you mean?” Edwards asked sounding confused.

“The script. It’s a little concerning,” Cooper continued.

“Why do you say that?”

“It’s his script for his new novel. I hadn’t seen a copy of it until yesterday. Dorothy told me I’d received an email from Minchum. So I checked the computer and there it was. I printed it out and read it through the night until I finished it.”

“I still don’t see what you’re getting at,” Edwards said.

“I didn’t want to bring it up in front of the other two. I’m not sure if I’m right about this.”

“Right about what? Spill it Cooper,” Edwards said sounding eager to hear what in the world he was driving at.

“Well, it’s typical for Minchums writing style. After reading it I was impressed – a great suspense thriller about a terrorist attack on the U.S. But it didn’t hit me until I caught the news this morning. I saw the report on the damaged flood gate near the Mall and suddenly it struck me.”

“What, for god’s sake Cooper… What?”

“Well, his story’s about an assassination attempt on the President. But in the planning stages of the attack, they blow up the very same floodgate that was mentioned on the news report. In the book, it became the method in which the terrorists kept the President and his entourage from escaping underground to avoid the attack and in the script it worked. Quite well in fact.”

“Wait a minute. Are you trying to tell me that Minchums script somehow predicted the flooding?”

“Well, kind of. If you think about it, it kind of makes sense. I am connected to Minchum and I was attacked. Then my attacker is murdered the next day. Then Minchum is killed the following day. Then the dam is blown.”

“I don’t know Cooper. It sounds a little far fetched. I’ve had some weird cases in my career, but… this… this is too much,” Edwards shook his head, thoroughly amazed at what Cooper had just told him. “But… I must admit it’s troubling. Do you still have this manuscript?”

“Yes, in fact I brought it with me,” Cooper replied. “It’s in my car.”

“Let me make sure I’ve got this right. So you’re saying that Minchums manuscript might be forecasting an assassination attempt on the President and the blowing of the downtown dam was used in the script?”

“That’s right. This can’t be just a coincidence,” Cooper replied.

“So, according to the script, when is this apparent assassination attempt supposed to happen?”

“Uh… I’m not really sure. In the script, Minchum has the President outside on the White House lawn addressing the press on the growing civil unrest in Iraq and the potential for a potential civil war.”

“How do they go after the President in the book?” Edwards asks.

“A shoulder rocket. They steel a shoulder rocket from Ft. Belvoir and take it to some hotel that over-looks the White House,” Cooper replies.

“A shoulder rocket, you mean like an RPG?”

“RPG?”

“A rocket propelled grenade launcher.”

“Yeah, something like that I guess. Is there such a hotel, I mean one that overlooks the White house like he described?” Cooper asked.

Edwards began to look pale in the face. Sweat was now collecting around his hairline as his expression changed from curious to nervousness. Watching him was making Cooper feel awkward. Was it something he said? Why was Edwards suddenly looking so uncomfortable in his own interrogation room?

“Does the Hotel Washington ring a bell? Was there any mention of it in the script? Think!” Edwards suddenly asked after a brief silence of thought.

“Yeah, that’s the one. So it really does overlook the White House?” Cooper asked.

“Cooper, did you say the President was doing some sort of press conference when it happens in the script?”

“Yeah, why?”

“There’s one scheduled for this afternoon. At one o’clock on the north lawn of the White House!”

Cooper swallowed hard. “You’re kidding!”

“Nope, but that’s not all.” Edwards said with a certain conviction in his voice.

“What do you mean?”

“I received a call from a counterpart who works with the Ft. Belvoir Security Forces about a week ago. He informed me that they’d had a security breach at one of their arms depot warehouses on the south side of the base.”

“A what?”

“Apparently, after doing an monthly inventory, they found that they were missing a tube and a case of rockets.”

“What! You’re kidding right?”

“Cooper, I need you to think very hard. How long was it between the blowing of the dam and the attack in the manuscript?”

“It was the very next day.” Cooper replied, now swallowing in a nervous stitch. Realizing the ramifications of what he had just been told. It all added up. This couldn’t be a coincidence. But it doesn’t make sense. The President was due to announce his nomination for Director of the CIA at a one o’clock press conference. How could Minchum have known about their plot? It was impossible – it was absurd. Now thoroughly confused, Cooper hadn’t noticed that Edwards had jumped up and was now seated at the desk behind the glass, frantically dialing a number on the cordless phone from the desk. He put the receiver to his ear, waiting for the call to get through. A few seconds later, Edwards began talking into the receiver; a grim look came over his face. Cooper couldn’t hear the conversation through the glass, but judging by his demeanor – his body language – he could tell Edwards looked upset, even pissed. But his look changed dramatically after about a minute of talking with whoever was on the other end. His look suddenly changed, now appearing shocked and confused. Who was he talking to? What was going on? Cooper felt bewildered, unable to understand what was happening at that moment. He wanted to get up, but didn’t feel it was his decision to make. The interrogation room seemed to determine his actions, reminding him that he was in the Detective’s territory. He wanted to get up, but felt that he should stay put until told otherwise. Edwards slammed down the phone, now clearly pissed-off at something he had just learned. He paced back and forth on the other side of the glass while rubbing his forehead feverishly before re-entering the interrogation room.

“Cooper, we’ve got a big problem! Edwards said to him.

“What? What is it?”

“I just called the FBI and asked to be connected to agent McCant.”

“Yeah, so did they put you through?”

“Not exactly.” Edwards said, looking like his point was only just getting started.

“What do you mean?”

“I was put through to the FBI’s operator. They told me they had no listings for an agent McCant… or Williams!”

“You’re kidding!”

“The operator then put me through to an SAIC in local affairs. I told him how they’d just been down at the Arlington Police station assisting in an interrogation. He told me he knew nothing about it. They have no agents by those names!”

“Holy shit! Are you telling me we have no idea who these guys really were? Didn’t you check their ID’s when they came in?” Cooper said in frustration.

“They had what appeared to be Bureau badges hanging from their suit pockets. We had no reason to doubt who they said they were.” Edwards replied, sounding a little defensive.

“Detective, “ Cooper interjected, panic setting in. “You don’t think those men are part of all this?”

“Right now, I don’t know what to think!” Edwards replied sounding frustrated. He turned around and headed back to the phone, picking it up in a hurry.

“What are you doing?” Cooper asked.

“I’m calling in the real FBI! We’ve got a major situation on our hands!”

CHAPTER 15

Edwards looked up for a clock but aside from the camera, there was nothing. The room was obviously designed in a way to not distract those within it. He looked down, pulling his sleeve back to see his watch. It was eleven o’clock. In two hours, the President would step out onto the north lawn for the press conference to announce his new nomination.

Edwards dialed the number that fed him into a direct line to the Northern Virginia bureau, tasked on all affairs within Arlington, Fairfax and Loudon counties. This was the first time he had ever had to call this number. Detective Edwards prided himself on his department. Their casework was stellar, uncompromised. They had successfully solved thirty-nine different cases in the last two years without ever having to call on the NVBI – Northern Virginia Bureau of Investigations.

“NVBI, how can I direct your call?” the voice answered.

“Agent Malone!” Edwards barked.

“One moment sir,” the voice replied.

It seemed forever until Agent Malone picked up the phone. He was Arlington Counties contact for any assistance requests from Arlington Police.

“Malone here,” he finally answered, sounding perturbed by the call.

“Agent Malone, this is Detective Edwards from the Arlington Police Department. We might have a situation here.”

“What can I do for you Detective Edwards?”

“I’ve been tasked to investigate some relevant evidence into the recent bombing in Alexandria…”

“We have men on that case!” Malone replied, cutting him off.

“Understood. But I have been working on a different case, which seems to overlap with your investigation. In fact, we’ve come to the conclusion that we might be dealing with a potential threat to national security,” Edwards explained.

“Detective, this better be good! I have men covering the bombing in Alexandria, men at the Tidal Basin, men at the White House today and have been running on a budget that wouldn’t buy my groceries. What kind of threat?”

“I have reason to believe that there will be an attack on the President today during his press conference.”

“What?!” Malone howled back.

Edwards began a five-minute break down of the newly revealed information concerning Minchum’s manuscript – how his publishing agent had been attacked and how the two men posing as agents from the Bureau may have compromised his interrogation. He didn’t leave out a shred of detail, covering every steps of his investigation. Malone remained silent while Edwards finished. Cooper sat next to Edwards while he spoke – the muscles in his shoulders tightening up with every word spoken. The more he heard the scenario, the more disturbed he became. Thoughts raced through his mind of a rocket screaming towards the White House, bodies strewn across the north lawn, security detail in a panic, trying to decipher how this could have happened – just like the scene in Minchums script had described. Then, another thought came upon him. His throat felt like he’d just swallowed a golf ball. His hands began to shake uncontrollably and the hair on the back of neck stood on-end. He grabbed Edwards arm, shaking it to get his attention. Edwards shrugged it off; annoyed he was interrupting his conversation. Cooper grabbed it again, this time getting Edwards to turn and look at him. Cooper locked on his eyes, using his right hand to mimic a phone. Edwards didn’t understand. Cooper kept his hand up to his ear, now silently mouthing the word cell to him. Edwards finally got it, trying to keep his attention on Malone’s response. He reached into his left pocket with his free hand and pulled out his cell phone, handing it to Cooper. Cooper snatched it with a sharp grab. He flipped it open and began to dial. The phone rang. Just before the fifth ring – the one that triggers their voicemail – Dorothy picked-up.

“Hello,” Dorothy answered.

“Dorothy! Listen to me,” Cooper replied sounding panicked.

“What’s the matter Coop?” she asked.

“Just listen. I’m with Detective Edwards at the station. I need you to get out of the house and get to your mothers.”

“Why, what’s going on?” She replied sounding anxious.

“Just do it, please. I’ll explain when you get to your mom’s. Please!” he continued.

“When?” she asked.

“Right now. You’ve got to get out of the house! Please, just do this for me!” he cried.

“Okay, I’ll go right now, but you’re scaring me,” she answered.

“As soon as you get there, call me on my cell. As soon as you get there, okay!”

When she hung-up, he ran to his coat on the table on the other side of the room, reaching into his pocket. He had completely forgotten about his own cell, having harassed Edwards for his minutes earlier. He quickly changed his profiles from silent to loud so not to miss the call from Dorothy when she got there. He shoved the phone into his jeans pocket and turned to Edwards who was just putting down the phone.

“So…?” Cooper said anxiously.

“We’ve got to go!” Edwards replied staring down at the floor in thought.

“Where?”

“Hotel Washington,” Edwards replied, still in thought.

“What about Malone, the FBI? Didn’t he believe you? Why don’t they go?” Cooper asked.

“He said he’d have some men look into it, but I didn’t hear much conviction in his voice. I’m not sure he’s taking this seriously. We need to go!”

Cooper swallowed hard, his knees slightly buckled under him. He wasn’t familiar with the hotel name, but knew exactly what it meant. Fear set in, taking hold of his nerves and shaking them violently. Edwards looked up and grabbed his coat, his standard issue Smith & Wesson 9mm and his gun belt from the coat hanger and readied himself. Cooper followed suit, throwing his coat on and zipping it up. He wasn’t cold, but the anticipation was now chilling him. The zipped coat gave him a false sensation of protection, something he wouldn’t feel again for a while. They marched downstairs and out into the street. They stopped on the stations front sidewalk.

“What are you driving?” Edwards asked. Gang members he’d been watching had vandalized his department car two nights ago. They’d spray painted his car with the words “Pig Mafia” when he slipped into a neighborhood bar for a nightcap a couple of nights ago. They’d gone so far as to slash the tires, bust the windscreen and spray-paint the driver’s door. He lived in a rough neighborhood, where he was constantly sticking his head into business they felt didn’t concern him. He assumed he had upset someone along the way and they were sending him a message to back off.

“I’ve got my Beemer in the garage across the street, but…”

“You don’t mind, right.” Edwards interjected.

“Um, well actually…”

“Fine, where is it? Come on Cooper, we don’t have much time!” Edwards replied, looking forward to driving a real car for once. The department Crown Vics left a lot to be desired. Stiff springs, hard seats and lousy air conditioning. Even when cool outside, the cars would heat up inside from the sealed rear plexi-glass windows.

“Hurry Cooper, we don’t have much time!” Edwards barked back to Cooper.

They jogged across the street and into the parking garage. Cooper yanked his keys out of his pocket to unlock the car. Just then, Edwards snatched them right out of Cooper’s sweaty hands. Cooper looked back at Edwards. Normally he’d fight tooth-and-nail to get his keys back from anyone gutsy enough to take them from him, but he had two good reasons to refrain in this case. First, Edwards was a detective and two, this was no time to be proprietary over a car; there was a bigger picture here. Cooper normally wouldn’t get involved in such matters, but he had never really been given the chance to make that decision. His heart raced, his palms and forehead now covered in sweat. The butterflies had evolved into bats in his stomach, giving him a growing sense of fluttering nausea.

They jumped in the car, slamming the door on either side, causing Cooper to cringe. If anything happened to his car he’d cry like a six-year-old over a broken favorite toy. The Beemer’s eight cylinders came to life with a roar. Edwards held back a little grin and then refocused on what they needed to do. The car rounded the corner and shot out of the garage into the street like a rocket – the rear-end fish-tailed briefly before Edwards recovered it. Cooper was impressed with Edwards driving abilities. They sped off down the side road, headed for 395 North to the District. With Edward’s heavy foot, they reached the highway within minutes, veering from the on-ramp into its open lanes. The car settled into it’s path as Edwards seemed to relax behind his grasp of the leather-wrapped wheel, sliding his hands across it’s smooth surface, appreciating the needle-stitched craftsmanship.

“All right, time to fill me in.” Edwards said, the cars engine purring in the background. Cooper shifted uncomfortably in his seat as he turned to Edwards. A slight look of concern crossed over his face as he began to tell him the entire story as he’d read it from the manuscript.

CHAPTER 16

Traffic was beginning to build as they drew closer to the 14^th Street Bridge. Edwards suddenly veered off the main lanes onto a feed ramp for the HOV lanes centered between the north and southbound lanes of the highway, freeing them from the increasing congestion. Edwards foot was heavy on the gas, keeping the needle above the 80mph mark the entire way – the engine rasping through its revolutions with each shift.

After hearing Coopers rendition of the Minchums script, Edwards couldn’t help but believe that what he was just told was about to unfold right in front of them. He’d come to realize that they were the only two who were convinced of the authenticity of the threat and Edwards felt compelled to act.

With soft leather in his hands and an explosive power under his right foot, Edwards found his mind abound of thoughts of how they would stop this very public attack on the embodiment of American power. It would spell victory not just for the attackers, but also for all those in support of a jihad against America. It would serve as an igniter of conflict and further attacks across the globe from extremists, fundamentalists and terrorists groups from the Middle East and beyond. He couldn’t think of a bigger statement than to assassinate the leader of the free world in a blaze of rockets while he stood in his own front yard, with every major TV network watching, enabling his death to be broadcast to millions of viewers worldwide. This was unlike any other assassinations the world had ever seen. This one would be public and gruesome. The terrorists were obviously using rockets for a reason. They wanted this to be a show, a spectacle of sorts. It would end up all over the networks and would do so with an ironic big bang. Panic trembled in his chest for a split second. He readjusted his grip on the steering wheel and took a deep breath, trying to build courage for what possibly lay ahead. Cooper watched him from the adjacent seat and began to feel uneasy.

“You alright?” Cooper asked.

Edwards didn’t answer, starring at the road in front of him.

“Edwards.”

“Huh?” he snapped from his trance.

“You ok?” Cooper asked again.

“I’m fine!”

“You got a plan?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, let me hear it,” Cooper said.

“It’s simple. We’re going to the hotel and we’re gonna stop these guys… if they’re actually there,” he said with a mixture of confidence and doubt. He then pulled out his cell and dialed a number. Within seconds he was talking as if on a radio.

“This is Detective Edwards, I need back-up at the Hotel Washington on 15^th and G. I will be there in about 5. Have them meet us one block north at 15^th and K. I need them in full dress.”

Then he snapped the phone shut. Cooper kept quiet as he slid sideways in his seat as Edwards rounded the last corner heading on to the 14 Street bridge. The Jefferson Monument stood proudly on the east bank of the river in front of them, as if policing those crossing the bridge into the District, allowing only those worthy of our Nations Capital to cross. The car weaved in and out of the three lanes of traffic across the bridge and took the exit marked Route 1. This fed them directly past the Smithsonian’s Holocaust Museum on their right and onto the Mall. The Washington Monument stood tall to their left side while the Capitol building loomed in the distance to their right. The Mall was littered with marching tourists, scurrying in and out of the plethora of sights and world- renowned museums along the grassy covered mall. The roads were jammed with backed-up traffic avoiding the pooled water from the rampant flooding.

Cooper looked out his window towards the Capitol. He had always stood in awe at the sight of this enormous edifice – the global symbol of democracy and free will. Its huge dome and rail of columns gleamed white in the early mid-day sunlight, almost appearing to radiate light like a symbolic beacon. They were only a few blocks away. The light turned green and Edwards mashed the petal like he was defending his pole position in a grand prix – the engine screaming like an angry vixen from beneath the hood. The Beemer whipped down its path as Edwards crossed two more lanes of traffic and hung a left onto Constitution Avenue. Cooper held on to the handle just above his window with his right hand and the other pressed firmly on the dashboard. At this point he was less worried about the car and more concerned about him making it to the hotel in one piece. Edwards made another turn onto 15^th Street. Just ahead on the left was the Treasury Department building and directly across from it stood the Hotel Washington. Cooper couldn’t believe what he was seeing. The hotel was literally within 100 yards of the White House. Well within range of a RPG assault. The situation suddenly became grossly real to Cooper. He swallowed and wiped the beads of sweat on his brow.

Edwards pulled the car around the corner onto K Street and stopped curbside, turning the car off. Edwards flipped his phone open again.

“This is Edwards. Where are they!” A muffled voice responded. Cooper couldn’t make out the response.

“Son of a…!” Edwards barked, stopping short on the punch line.

There was a brief silence in the cabin. Then Edwards leaned forward toward the steering wheel as if reaching for his ankles. He pulled out a 9 mm from his left pant leg and pulled it up into sight, startling Cooper. He set it on the center console, as if trying to keep it out of sight and checked the clip to see if it was full – and it was. He quickly clicked the clip back in and paused for a minute before extending it out to Cooper.

“Take this.”

“What!? I don’t…”

“Take it!” Edwards interrupted him and then paused again. “You’re gonna need it. If everything you’ve told me is true, we’re in for a bumpy ride.”

“I have no intentions of going up there with you! You’re the cop, not me!” Cooper responded.

“We don’t have a choice right now Cooper! My guys are stuck in traffic on the bridge and we don’t have much time! We’ve gotta do this now! You ever fired one before?”

“Only a few times with my father when I was in college,” Cooper responded.

“Take it!”

“I…,” Cooper stumbled.

“Take it!” Edwards snapped, shoving the gun in his face. “Let’s see what you’ve got kid.” Cooper reached out and took the pistol, surprised at its weight. It felt foreign in his hand. He made on last miserable attempt to remove himself from the predicament he now found himself engulfed in.

“You sure you don’t want to wait a couple of minutes for your guys?”

Edwards looked at his watch. It was now 12:30pm. Only 30 minutes before the president would address the press only yards away from where they stood. The White House security detail was evident as they canvassed the area across the street.

“We’ve gotta go now.”

Edwards grabbed the handle on the door and swung it open. He lifted out from the drivers seat and turned towards the car. Cooper opened his and got out, mimicking Edwards movements. As he stood up, he reached his hand onto the roof of the car, the pistol still in its grasp.

“Cooper!”

“What?”

“The gun!”

“Oh shit!” Cooper quickly shoved it into his open zipper in his coat, hiding it just in time from the officers now walking buy behind them on the sidewalk.

“Thank you,” Edwards said facetiously, rolling his eyes as he turned.

Cooper regained his composure and stepped back onto the sidewalk. He zipped up his coat and met Edwards at the front of the car.

“Are you sure about the hotel Cooper?”

“Hotel Washington. Yes!”

“Alright. Let’s go,” Edwards responded, now sounding more focused. They marched side-by-side down 15^th street. They crossed an eerily quiet G Street and walked through the front doors into the hotel.

The inside reception area was elegant, but small. Obviously an older building, the reception desk was enclosed in a decorative box of gilded metalwork and mesh, looking like the cashier at an old-school Vegas casino. The main lobby was elongated and filled with chique antique seating, ornate Indian and Persian rugs and heavy white marble planters filled with variations of dark and light drooping ferns. The floor was an impressive mosaic of multicolored tiles laid in elaborate patterns from one end to the other. The walls were simple, yet elegant, trimmed in tasteful moldings and wood trim. The foyer made a statement to Cooper. It was clear to him that only those with money and influence stayed here. He quickly felt underdressed and out of place.

Edwards pace slowed until he came to a casual stop in the middle of the room. Cooper stopped next to him and observed anxiously. What was he doing? Why did he stop? He appeared to be scanning the room; only there was no one to scan –no oddities – any anomalies, as a matter a fact, not a sole in sight. Cooper didn’t get it. Edwards didn’t get it either. He scanned the room one last time and turned to Cooper.

“I’ll tell you what. If there’s something big about to happen, you’d never know it in here.”

“This is it. This is the hotel he referred to in the script,” Cooper replied.

“The foyer’s just like he described in the manuscript. But where is everyone?”

Edwards walked over towards the reception desk. He looked to his left and noticed that the elevator doors were open and walked up closer to see inside. A man suddenly popped out of the elevator. Edwards jumped back, pulling out his weapon and pointing it at him.

“Freeze!” Edwards yelled.

The man jumped back in shock. His face went pale as he raised his hands high in the air, dropping a set of keys on the floor beside him.

“Don’t shoot!” the man yelled.

“Over to the desk, now! Hands on the counter where I can see them!” Edwards ordered the man, still holding at gunpoint.

“Okay, okay!” the man responded.

Edwards moved in towards him, moving his pistol from his right to his left hand. Using his right hand, he patted the man down, revealing nothing but a short-range radio that Edwards removed from his belt and set on the counter.

“What’s this for!” he barked.

“Sir, I’m the receptionist here. This is the radio all the staff members carry,” he answered.

“Where’s your ID?”

“In my front pocket.”

Edwards reached into the man’s front suit pocket and pulled out his hotel ID.

“What were you doing in the elevator?” Edwards asked him as he put his gun back into its holster under his coat and backed away. The man recomposed himself, turned around to face them and readjusted his coat – accustomed to having to always be presentable for the high-end customer he was dealing with on a daily basis.

“I was locking the eleventh floor on the button pad inside.”

“Why, what’s up there?”

“That’s the floor where our full service restaurant and terrace café are.”

“Why are you locking the floor?” Edwards continued.

“The terrace staff just called down and asked me to close the floor. Apparently they had a electrical problem with one of the stoves in the kitchen and wanted to close the café until the problem’s repaired,” he answered. Edwards turned to Cooper, giving him a look like something’s up. Cooper acknowledged the look with a subtle nod. Edwards turned back to the man.

“What’s your name?” he asked him.

“Peter.”

“Peter, I’m Detective Edwards. Has anyone gone up there this morning.”

“Yeah. They opened about an hour ago. There was a young couple about forty-five minutes ago; the staff went up over an hour ago and four men within the last thirty minutes. Oh, and a repairman went up about ten minutes ago with a large case, then came back down without it and left.”

“What kind of case?” Edwards asked.

“Didn’t pay that much attention to it really. Just big and black.” Peter answered.

“Let’s go.” Edwards whispered.

“What if I have this all wrong?” Cooper asked nervously.

“Well, there’s only one way to find out,” Edwards responded. “Come on.”

Edwards marched over towards the elevator and then paused in thought. Turning back to the desk, he walked back to it where Peter was still standing.

“Do you think you could let us up to just have a quick look around?”

“Uh, sure. Let me get someone to cover the desk and I’ll…”

“No need, we’ll take the elevator key and be back in a jiff,” Edwards cut him off. The clerk looked puzzled, even a little uncomfortable, but agreed and handed them the key.

“Okay, just put it in and push the eleventh floor button. It’ll take you right up,” The clerk added.

“Thanks. We’ll return the key in a couple of minutes.”

Cooper wasn’t sure why Edwards was being so vague, but he played along. They turned and headed back to the elevator. The doors opened at the touch of the button and they hopped in. Edwards inserted the key and turned it, then pressed the eleventh floor button. It lit up and the doors closed.

CHAPTER 17

The doors closed and the elevator jumped into motion. Coopers nerves were a mess; he was sweating profusely and was seriously starting to regret not having insisted that he stay in the car. Edwards looked focused but a little rattled.

“Alright. Cooper, I’ve got about twenty seconds to tell you how to stay alive. If we run into trouble up there, you need to know a few things. Keep your back against a wall, stay low and don’t panic. Remember, it’s only you and me and we have potentially six people up there, aside from the staff, we don’t know who’s friendly and who’s not. All we’ve got are these two 9mm, each with fifteen rounds and one in the chamber. Use them only when you have to.”

“I don’t know…,” Cooper said nervously.

“You watch TV?” Edwards asked him.

“Sure.”

“You’ve seen the scenes, you’ve seen how they move through a room. Take that as your training. Just use your instincts.”

Just as he finished his lesson the elevator slowed and came to a stop. The eleventh floor button was now illuminated and a very final beep sounded as the doors began to open. This was it. Cooper knees trembled as the doors began to slide open. Edwards had his handgun raised, pointed to the roof. Cooper pulled his out but left it down by his side. With the doors wide open now, Edwards peered out. The hallway went both left and right. It was an open hallway with fancy carpeting and sporadic flower arrangements on small tables along the walls. On one end were the glass doors to the restaurant, on the other was a bend in the hallway leading to what looked like more rooms. Edwards moved out into the hall and down towards the glass doors, staying close to the left wall – Cooper stayed right behind him, moving along the wall like a chameleon. Edwards stopped short of the glass doors, leaning forward slightly to peer through them. The interior café came into sight. It was completely empty, but the exterior doors were still open to the outdoor terrace, where tables were dressed for lunch, their tablecloths flapping in the breeze.

Edwards scanned the terrace for movement but found it difficult to see. The sunlight from the terrace was casting a sharp glare, silhouetting everything in the foreground. He moved his eyes back across the terrace to look deeper into the interior café, but quickly stopped short and scanned back to the left terrace where he caught sight of it. He rose up a little for a better vantage point. Out on the terrace was a case similar to the one described by the receptionist downstairs. He could see the letters U.S. ARMY on its side. Next to it laid a second smaller box, the lid wide open. Edwards was no weapons expert, but was sure that was the launch cylinder for an RPG inside the case and a second casing for the shells.

Edward’s heart rate suddenly skyrocketed. He now came to the realization that it was all very real. Cooper was right. He couldn’t believe it. His hands began to shake as he looked at it for another second. He lowered back down and backed up to Cooper, taking a deep breath as the gravity of the situation hit him like a ton of bricks. He pointed to the terrace through the glass.

“You were right,” he said in a soft whisper. “On the terrace. Looks like a rocket launcher.”

Cooper’s face went pale and his eyes swelled to twice their usual size. He felt sick to his stomach. It churned, seeming to flip over inside his gut. His face grew warm as his blood flushed into his face and shoulders creating an unusual tingling feeling in his feet. His nerves were running wild. This was real. This was here… this was now. He nodded to Edwards and repositioned his feet, grabbing the pistol with both hands in a clammy grip.

Edwards stayed low, moving slowly towards the cafés front doors. Cooper followed close behind. Edwards reached out and pushed lightly against the glass doors. The doors opened as Edwards kept his hands on the glass, slowly – carefully – pushing them open and moving into the café. Staying low on their knees, they scanned the room for any movement. Then they heard voices coming from the kitchen – three, maybe four men. Edwards raised his left hand, showing two, then three fingers, then pointed in the direction of the kitchen to Cooper. Edwards edged a few steps further then stopped beside a table and chairs. He took another glance at the case on the balcony. It sent chills up his spine. There was no larger reality than the one presenting itself in front of them right there and then. Cooper wanted out. He had never felt so anxious – so scared. His hands were shaking uncontrollably. His legs felt like they would buckle at any time. Beads of sweat building on his brow, beginning to drip down through his thick eyebrows. Edwards turned to him, his hand up to his lips signaling him to keep quiet.

“Sounds like they’re in the kitchen,” he whispered.

“Where’s the staff?” Cooper asked, barely audible.

“Don’t know. We’ve got to go in there while they’re away from the case.”

“O… ok.” Cooper responded with strong hesitation under his breath.

“You ready?”

“Shouldn’t we create a diversion or something?” he whispered.

“No, that’ll just bring them out, guns and all. Just follow my lead… and be loud!”

Edwards stood all the way up and began slowly walking towards the opening to the kitchen. The restaurant floor was dimly lit, but the white florescent light from the kitchen was shining out into the dining area. They headed right for the light, guns held in both hands – their index fingers on the triggers. They passed through the walk-through at the bar and nudged up to the edge of the kitchen door. The voices were clear, crisp, but incomprehensible. They were speaking an Arabic dialect Cooper and Edwards had never heard before. The voices were calm but stern and direct, sounding like one of the men was directing the others. Edwards raised his left hand and began counting. First one finger, then two and then three. An explosion of yelling and light erupted as they rounded the corner into the kitchen, pointing their weapons at the group of men standing around a stainless-steel cutting table near the center of the kitchen. The men jumped in all directions yelling words back and forth to each other. Two of them grabbed their pistols off the cutting table and began firing at Cooper and Edwards, barely missing them a couple of times. They dove for cover behind a maze of stainless-steel freezers and countertops – bullets ricocheting off the metal surfaces all around them. There was more yelling from the four men, sounding as if they were directing each other through the erupting chaos.

Coopers ears were ringing, quickly numbing from the noise of the gunfire echoing off the tiled kitchen walls. It was all a blur. Bullets whizzing by his head, flashes of light reflected off the glare of the stainless steel kitchenware, yelling and bangs that felt loud enough to tear an eardrum. With all the racket, Cooper suddenly felt disoriented, stunned and helpless in the pandemonium. He froze, not knowing what to do. Just then, Edwards popped up from behind the grill, shelling out a barrage of rounds towards the opposite side of the room. The look on his face was similar to Coopers. He looked overwhelmed, firing off the rounds in a pseudo-rage in a seemingly erratic manner. This only made Cooper feel more at risk. Edwards fired off four rounds and ducked back down behind the grill. As his head sunk out of view, a figure revealed itself behind him. A man stood there, staring right at Edwards back, gun pointed right at his head. He lowered the barrel and readied to fire. Right then a round hit the man in the chest – blood splattering the wall behind him. Cooper couldn’t believe it. His finger still pulling on the recoiled trigger, a breath of smoke poured out the barrel of his gun. He didn’t move, amazed he reacted as he did – the tip of the gun trembling in front of him. Just then another bang rang out. A bullet whizzed over Cooper’s head, striking a copper pot on the counter just above him. The pot made a clang and fell to the floor, spilling the hot buttery contents onto the floor – splashing Cooper in the face. He screamed. It was burning, causing shearing pain on his nose and in left eye. He immediately reacted, dropping his gun and masking his face with his hands, rubbing the contents of the pan from his eye and off his nose. The pain came and went quickly, the splatter cooling as quick as it burned. He wiped his face one more time and opened his eyes, his vision now partially blurred. He grabbed his pistol back up off the floor and resituated himself in his makeshift shelter.

“Cooper, you alright?” Edwards yelled over the racket.

“I’m okay.”

“Thanks for covering my back!” Edwards barked back over the gunfire.

“Yep.”

Cooper huddled back down, knowing they were now facing three, not four. But the continuing gunfire sounding to be coming from only one source, one direction. It was to his left. What about the others? What were they doing? Cooper slid across the floor, keeping his head low. He reached the edge of the counter and prep himself. Reaching his arm around the edge, he fired of a round and then quickly extended his head out far enough to see a back door to the kitchen. He moved quickly back behind the counter. Another round flew past, striking a trash can only a foot away. He now realized the others had moved out of the kitchen. Where did they go? He considered the options.

CHAPTER 18

Outside, across the street, behind the Treasury department, on the White House north lawn, a large crowd had assembled. Reporters from every major network were scrambling to make their last minute tweaks to their cameras equipment as their anchors got doused in make-up and hair treatments. The lawn was teeming with a jumble of press members, secret service agents, staff event coordinators and police scurrying around in a mixing bowl of anticipation. It was now close to one o’clock and the President would address the crowd any minute.

Mark Carmichael took his position in front of his camera, holding his trusty microphone in hand. A glare from the umbrella lighting behind his camera forced him to squint, eventually dropping his mike to his side.

“Dan, the lighting’s killing me. Can we dial it down a notch?” he said.

“Sure thing Mark,” his lighting assistant replied.

“Hurry it up, he’ll be out any minute now.”

“Almost done.”

Mark stepped over to a chair to his right and grabbed his bottled water, taking a quick swig to moisten his pallet.

“All set Mark, let’s get this done.”

Mark dropped his bottle back on the chair and stepped back into the camera line, lifting his microphone back up and striking his usual on-camera pose.

“Let’s do this,” he said with an air of egotism.

He was a dauntless kind of fellow who loved being in the spotlight. The camera was his second home. He was young, in his mid thirties, handsome and debonair. He was clearly aware of his charm, winking at the sound girl to his side. He’d worked for WNBL for six years and just moved up to chief correspondent six months ago. Having lobbied his boss for the position for the last year, he’d talked his way in with persuasive ease. Since then, he’d covered all major stories from local events to national spotlights. The other correspondents loved him too, falling prey to his magnetic charm and sharp wit. He’d often use his suavity to coerce his interviewees into divulging more than they had originally intended, developing surface-level stories into hard-hitting barn-burners.

The executives of WNBL were fond of his on-camera presence. They were convinced his handsome looks and resilient confidence would attract the female demographic the network hadn’t capitalized on. The network sat back over the last couple of months and watched their gamble pay-off in big dividends. Mark helped the network soar to the top channel in the Washington metropolitan area for the last three months. Mark knew it – the executives knew it. As long as the back scratching continued on either side, the relationship would flourish.

“Where is he?” Mark chirped out to his crew. “What time is it?”

“Little after one,” his cameraman answered.

“What’s the deal, this thing was supposed to start at one, wasn’t it?”

“Yup.”

“We’ve got to be in Bethesda by three for the five o’clock news.” Mark mentioned. “He better get this thing going soon.”

“I’m sure he’s concerned about your schedule Mark. He’ll be right out.” His cameraman, Jim, said sarcastically. He was the one crewmember who wasn’t impressed with Mark. He didn’t appreciate his arrogance one bit. They bantered back and forth some more while impatiently prepping their equipment for the event.

Men in black suits and dark-tinted glasses stood on either side of the north patio doors of the White House, pressing their earpieces to their ears, not missing a single communication. They were keen on watching the crowd below, assessing and analyzing the situational risks of each passing moment. Just then the doors swung open. Out came members of the President’s entourage – his advisors, press team and Secret Service detail. Close behind walked the President, dressed in a dark navy suit and sharp red tie. The Press quickly noticed and frenzied towards them, fighting for position in the crowd. Cameras flashed from every angle as the President moved into position behind the podium situated at the base of the patio steps. He adjusted the microphone and set down his notes atop the official podium. The press cluttered in all around him, as close as the roped-off press area would allow.

“Good afternoon my fellow Americans,” the President began.

CHAPTER 19

Cooper remained hunched down behind the countertop trying to figure out the where-a bouts of the two other men. Cooper had taken one down and the other was tucked somewhere on the other side of the kitchen, firing off round after round in his direction. Edwards returned fire with a quick reach over the table, fending off any forward movement from the gunman. Cooper then sat back and called out to Edwards. Seconds later Edwards scurried from behind the grill and jumped in behind the counter with Cooper. Sweat dripping down his forehead, his breathing heavy but controlled.

“We’ve got a problem!” Cooper said to him between rounds.

“What’s that?” Edwards replied ducking the ricochets.

“We’ve lost two of them.”

“What do you mean?” Edwards replied.

“Listen,” Cooper said. “I’m only hearing one weapon and the chatter has stopped. The same weapon is firing each time.”

Edwards listened as several more rounds were fired their way, bullets throwing sparks as the bounced off the kitchen fixtures metal surfaces. Edwards had been to department firing ranges hundreds of times and began realizing he could pick out the type of gun the officers in the range were firing based purely on the sounds they made when fired. He quickly realized Cooper was on to something. All he heard was the firing of what he made out to be an AK-47 assault rifle, in semi-automatic mode.

“Yeah… you’re right!” he said, feeling a little silly he hadn’t picked up on it first.

“What do we do?” Cooper asked in desperate need of some guidance.

“Move!… Quick!”

Just then rounds began to crash into the counter right next to them. One struck Cooper high in the shoulder. He jumped back in shock, letting out a muted scream. Pain shot through his shoulder instantly, causing his arm to flinch in a reactionary reflex, dropping his weapon on the floor beside him. A small spatter of blood jumped from his torso out onto the refrigerator door in front of them. A sudden sensation of nausea overtook his gut as his clenched-up inside him. A searing burn from his shoulder raced quickly up to the right side of his neck. Edwards grabbed him and drug him over next to him as an abundance of rounds rung-out all around them.

“You hit?!” Edwards asked over the noise of the gunfire, sounding panicked.

“Shoulder,” Cooper answered.

Just then a loud bang accompanied by a sharp flash rang out across the kitchen. The two men who had come around behind them went limp and dropped to the floor. There was a new sound in the room – the sound of familiar fire. Several M-16’s had made their presence. Edwards recognized their signature firing sequences immediately. He sunk down in his spot, pulling Cooper down with him, waiting for it all to be over. Within seconds, the room went quiet.

“CLEAR!” a voice said.

It was music to Edwards’s ears.

“Jack! Is that you?” Edwards yelled out.

“Edwards! You okay?” the voice responded.

Edwards stood up, lifting Cooper up with him. Cooper moaned as Edwards jerked on this arm. As they stood up, they looked over towards the kitchens main entrance. In it stood three men dressed in all black fatigues, weapons still held high to their chinstraps. They wore Kevlar vests and full headgear. One of the men removed his helmet and dropped his weapon to his side. He ran over to Edwards and Cooper to assist.

“We’ve got one hit!” he shouted out, startling Cooper. The other men ran in and grabbed Cooper under the armpits, fully supporting his weight as he hoisted him to his feet.

“I’m okay!” Cooper exclaimed feeling overwhelmed by the large men on either side. “It’s just a graze.”

They pulled back his coat and looked closer at the wound. Upon seeing the wound, they giggled a little and let go of his arms.

“He’ll be alright. He’s right. It’s just a graze,” the man next to him hollered out.

“It’s about time you guys showed!” Edwards said to Jack.

“Sorry Detective, we were delayed by traffic. We got here as soon as we could,” Jack answered. “Looks like we were just in time. These two behind me were flanking you.”

The two men he was referring to now lay side-by-side on the floor, sprawled face down in their own viscous pools of blood. Cooper turned and glanced to the other end of the kitchen. From his angle, he saw the third man, slumped against the wall – a nasty blood splash all over the tile behind him. His head hung down over his bloodstained chest.

“All targets have been neutralized Detective,” Jack exclaimed with apparent pride in his teams effectiveness.

“Shame!” Edwards responded. “We could have used them alive.”

That’s when Cooper heard it. A sound. A thumping. Coming from the freezer on the far wall. He reached out and tapped Edwards on the shoulder, pointing to the freezer door.

“I think there’s someone in there,” Cooper said to Edwards.

Edwards looked over to the freezer, trying to figure out what Cooper was talking about. Then he heard it too. A thumping followed by what sounded like a muffled voice from behind the hefty steel door.

“Jack, there’s someone in there,” Edwards yelled.

“You two – outside, now!” Jack ordered. Edwards and Cooper moved to the kitchen entrance and slid out into the main floor of the café, turning back to watch as the men moved towards the freezer door, guns lifted back to their chins. Jack opened the door, his M-16 under his right arm, finger on the trigger. He yanked back on the frigid handle and open the door and saw them. The kitchen staff looked half-frozen, huddled down in a group at the base of the door. The men behind Jack moved forward, helping up the chilled, shivering bodies on the floor, moving them out into the center of the kitchen.

“Get me some blankets!” Jack called out.

Cooper backed into the main dining area, not knowing what might happen. Edwards stayed just inside the kitchen door, his hand on his pistol at his side. Cooper lost sight of him as he continued backing up, sensing it wasn’t all over yet. Just then, Cooper heard a noise from behind. A massively loud ripping sound followed by a shock wave he felt against his back. The sound was deafening and the ensuing pulse of pressure nearly knocked him to his knees. As he turned to look, a dense swelling plume of white ashen smoke rushed into the café, engulfing the room within it and heading right towards where he stood.

“Get down!” Cooper yelled out.

“What the…!” Edwards started just as the cloud of white slammed into the kitchen doorway where they stood. Cooper was now engulfed in a shroud of heavy smoke, filling his lungs as he fell to the dining floor, choking on the fumes as they raced into his mouth. He could no longer see where Edwards had been standing and quickly became desperately disoriented.

CHAPTER 20

Mark was standing next to his cameraman as he kept the camera focused on the President, now beginning his address to the press and the nation. Jim pointed his camera directly at the man behind the podium, the Treasury building sat as a formidable backdrop to the scene in his viewfinder. Making a small adjustment to the lens, he suddenly noticed it. Pulling his eye from the viewfinder, he quickly blinked hard to readjust his sight. Atop the building behind the Treasury complex was a large, white spherical cloud of smoke, seemingly out of place in such a scene. A small linear line of white began to grow into an elongated plume of smoke, moving fast in their direction, immediately recognizing what it was. He’d spent six years in the Army and had seen the likes of what bear down in front of him before when in Desert Storm.

Without even a moment’s hesitation, he yelled as loud as he possibly could.

“Incoming! Get down now!”

His voice overrode any other in the immediate area as the crowd all turned his way. It was a shoulder rocket headed right for them and he instantly reacted as if he were back in the desert.

“Get down, now!” he repeated even louder this time.

The Secret Service agents jumped to the President with immaculate precision, tackling him down to the floor in a mass of protective bodies. Members of the press spun around, trying to figure out what was happening. Just then, the rocket slammed into the left side of the White House patio, releasing an explosion of intense proportions. The impact was severe, throwing debris in all directions. Flames erupted everywhere, rolling over themselves on a swirl of thermal vortexes. Shards of concrete, marble and glass flew through the air, striking anyone in relative proximity, piercing their clothing and shredding their skin. The mix of confused voices turned to bone-chilling screams. Some of them in utter fear, some more directive in nature – coming from those trained in such horrific scenarios.

Mark was knocked back hard from the impact, now flat on his back in a flowerbed about seven feet back. Others lay next to him wiping their faces of ash and dust. Jim was a few feet to his right, shifting from his side, desperately scrambling to get back on his feet. The camera was still gripped firmly in his hands. This was a true sign of a great cameraman; putting his camera’s safety before his own. Each camera cost a small fortune and he knew it well. Jim finally pounced back up, checked himself for injuries, then lifted the camera back up to his eye and began recording amidst the chaos. Mark clambered back up, still dumbfounded in shock and ran back over to Jim’s side.

“What the hell was that?!” he blurted. “You get that?” he asked in desperation.

“You better believe it”, Jim responded in anxious excitement.

Pointing the camera toward the site of impact, he watched as press staff and members of the Secret Service scrambled to their feet. The scene was horrific. A sizeable crater was now evident to the right of where, only minutes ago, the President had been standing. The podium lay crumpled on its side, the Presidential seal torn from its front panel. Three mangled bodies lay dreadfully still near the impact site – their black suits half missing, their faces half gone. The pool of blood around them was enough to make anyone vomit. Jim pointed the camera directly at them as Mark stood there in disbelief.

“What the hell just happened!?” Mark pleaded.

“I think we’ve just witnessed an assassination attempt on the President!” Jim responded sharply.

“Where is he?”

“Who?”

“The President you idiot!” Mark barked.

“Hell if I know!” Jim spat back.

Mark turned and scanned the grounds. There was chaos everywhere. People strewn about the press box, guards and Secret Service running in all directions. Looking to the north corner of the White House garden, Mark caught site of an organized group of black suits, all in a tight – huddled formation, scrambling to a small side gate leading to the Executive Office grounds adjacent to the mansion. Within seconds they had disappeared through the gate and behind some thick leafy hedging. Surely that was the P.O.T.U.S., President of the United States, being hoarded away in such a tight, well-practiced procedure.

“I think he’s okay!” Mark blurted, sounding a little relieved. “Looks like they got him to the Exec Offices over there. I just saw a crowd of black suits huddled around someone moving over there.”

“So what the hell just happened?” Mark asked.

“I think we just got hit by an RPG,” Jim answered.

“A what?”

“An RPG – stands for rocket propelled grenade. It came from up there!” he said, pointing to the hotel about 80 yards away.

“Are you serious!”

“Pretty sure. I saw it coming in,” Jim replied.

“You saw it coming! So it was you that yelled out just before the explosion.”

“Yep.”

“How did you know it was… Wait a minute. Did you catch it on film?” Mark asked – his voice moved from fretful to excited. “Did you?”

“I think so. It all happened so fast, but I think I got it.”

“You’re shitting me! You got all that!” Mark said, now sounding elated. “Let’s get to the van and have a look.”

“What about all these people. They need help!” Jim responded.

“Right. Give me the camera. I’ll run back to the van, you stay here with them.”

“Nice. Whatever!” Jim said sounding annoyed. He looked back to the scene behind him, still in awe over what had just happened in front of him. People were running everywhere, tending to those still static on their backs.

“Do whatever you’ve gotta do. I’m going back.”

Mark replied defensively, “I’ll only be a minute.”

With that, Jim handed Mark the camera and turned back towards the crowd, rolling up his sleeves as he ran into the throng of injured reporters and staffers, offering up his help where needed. He knelt down next to the closest casualty only to realize it was too late. A large piece of shrapnel had lodged itself in the woman’s neck, causing severe bleeding sourced from her jugular vein. If she wasn’t dead yet, she would be in a matter of minutes. Jim’s stomach turned at the sight. He stood up, took a deep breath and moved on to the next one, turning back to see if Mark had a change of heart and returned back to help. He was nowhere to be found.

Mark scuttled towards the north gate – the camera tight under his arms. Something cold dripped down his forehead and soaked into his eyebrow. He lifted his hand to wiped off what he thought was sweat, only to realize his hand was now smeared with blood.

“Hold it!” A gate guard called out, still getting his bearings.

Mark stopped dead in his tracks. The guard’s voice was extremely convincing. “No one leaves the property!” he said.

“I’m press,” Mark replied, lifting his badge. “I need to get to my van right over there.” The van was parked curbside about 30 yards away in plain sight.

“No one leaves!” the guard pressed. “Those are my orders!”

“I might have all this on tape. I may be able to find the source of where the rocket came from.”

“Sir, I…”

“Did you hear me, I might be able to help you guys figure out what just happened – maybe even who did this!” Mark lobbied.

“Stand fast sir! Don’t move!” The guard said firmly. He raised his hand to his earpiece as he turned slightly from Mark. After a moment’s discussion with someone on the other line he dropped his hand and turned back to Mark.

“Sir, wait here. Someone will escort you to your van.”

“But…”

“Sir!” he said again, sounding extremely volatile.

“Alright, alright. I’m not moving.” Mark said, holding back his frustration. He stood there for a short while, staring at the eyes staring back at him.

“Sir, you know you’re bleeding.”

“I’m fine, just a small cut,” Mark responded, glad to hear the guard was on top of things. A few seconds later, a man came running down the driveway to the gate, weaving in and out of the stunned crowd.

“Let’s go,” the man said firmly while catching his breath.

“Who are you?” Marked asked, now curious.

“FBI,” he answered, showing his badge for a split second. Mark accepted the deal and ran past the gate with the agent right behind. Running up to the van, Mark yanked open the side door and jumped in. The agent, still breathing heavily, jumped in with him. There wasn’t much room for two but Mark dealt with it. He didn’t have a choice. Setting the camera down on the floor, he reached up to one of the video stations in the van and grabbed what looked like RCA cables. Shoving them into the back of the camera, he switched its power on and typed in a few letters into the keyboard in front of a small screen at the station.

The agent sat there without uttering a word, watching every move Mark made. Mark could feel his stare from over his shoulder. Within seconds the screen lit up. Static erratically danced around the screen briefly while Mark fiddled with the camera some more. It was obviously not his area of expertise – fumbling through the complex array of equipment for a little longer. Then a picture snapped onto the screen. It was Mark standing centered in the shot making his network introduction prior to the President showing up behind him. The tape cut-off a few seconds later, then came back on. Now on the screen, they could see the White House and Mark off to one side. It appeared that Jim was adjusting his position for a good camera angle as the camera view jostled from left to right. Then the movement stopped, settling on a shot of the podium from an angle. The right side of the patio was now back-dropped with Douglas Firs and the Treasury building behind them – just beyond was the roofline of the Hotel Washington. Mark admired Jim’s ability to find the most appealing camera angle in any situation, always finding a visually aesthetic backdrop for any shoot. Then, out of the left side of the screen the Secret Service agents in black appeared – followed by the President himself. He walked a little further forward until he was standing directly behind the podium, his entourage surrounding him in tight formation. The he began his discourse.

Mark knew it was several minutes after the President began speaking when the explosion occurred and reached forward to scan through the video.

“Don’t!” the agent declared unexpectedly.

“What?”

“Take a look,” the agent said, pointing to the upper right side of the ten-inch monitor. Atop the Hotel Washington, they could vaguely make out something moving along an open terrace. Difficult to decipher, they shifted their positions in closer to the screen. Still struggling to make it out they continued watching. As the recording played on, it became clear what it was – a man. The man appeared to be lifting something onto his shoulder from below the concrete railing. Unable to make out exactly what it was they kept watching. A few more seconds past, then they saw it – a white plume of smoke pushing out behind the man. As the plume grew, it sharply silhouetted the figure in front of it. In a split second they watched as a trail of the same white smoke moved away from the plume and towards the camera with intense speed. It was moving fast. Very fast, swirling like a roller coaster through a corkscrew. Just before impact, the agent reached forward and turned off the screen.

“We’re gonna have to take this,” the agent said in a concisely monotone voice.

“What! You can’t just take this!” Mark cried out.

“This recording is now a matter of National Security. I’m sorry,” the agent replied. He unplugged the cables from the back of the camera and grabbed it up.

“If it goes, I go!” Mark said, seeing if it would take.

“Sorry. No can do,” the agent replied as he stepped out of the van back onto the curb. “Who’s your camera man?”

“Over there in the blue shirt and tan vest, why?”

The agent didn’t respond to Mark’s question.

“When we’ve reviewed the recording, you’ll get the camera back.”

“C’mon, that can’t be legal!” Mark responded feeling helpless.

The agent walked away from the van, back through the White House gate and right up to Jim. He was hunched over another injured cameraman from a different network, trying to bandage his head. The agent marched up to him, leaned in and said a few words. Jim nodded and stood up, following him over to the Executive office complex – camera in a tight clutch under the agents left arm.

Mark could do nothing but sit and watch as his cameraman walked off without him.

CHAPTER 21

The terrace café was dense with smoke and a strong stench of burnt fuel now filled the inner dining room. Cooper lay still on the floor, his eyes closed tight out of sheer instinctual reflex. The huge reverberation had now passed and the surge of heat that had smashed into him minutes ago was now fading. Cooper slowly begun to open his eyes, blinking several times to clear his vision, coughing repeatedly. All he could make out was the chandelier hanging from above, shrouded in an ambient mist of white. Whatever had just happened had now passed, but what was it? Cooper sat up and looked over to where Edwards had been, but was now gone. Then he appeared from behind mist, looking in utter disbelief at Cooper while clearing his face of dust and fumes. He too was blinking repeatedly, stopping occasionally for several intense sessions of eye rubbings.

“You… alright… Detective?” Cooper asked, coughing a little between words.

“Fine, you?” Edwards replied.

“What in the hell was that?”

Edwards stood there for a minute, trying to make sense of what just happened. Then it struck him. Could it be? But his team had neutralized all the targets. It simply couldn’t be.

“Jack, you alright?” Edwards yelled back into the kitchen.

“We’re fine! You guys okay?”

“Jack, I need you guys out here, now!” Edwards bellowed, sounding genuinely worried. In a split second Jack and his team were standing beside Edwards, who immediately pulled out his weapon.

“There’s someone on the terrace!” Edwards whispered. “We were just on the tail end of an RPG launch. Someone just fired one! Get over there and find the shooter!” Jack motioned to his men, waiving a series of hand signals at them in silent stealth. They lifted their weapons and moved in covert-like formation towards the terrace doors, disappearing into the thick white haze. Edwards grabbed Cooper and heaved him back behind the bar counter, fearful of more gunfire erupting at any second. Out of the corner of his eye, Cooper felt Edwards staring at him. Minutes passed and not a sound was heard. Edwards didn’t understand. What had happened? It was too calm, too quiet. Then he heard Jack voice from outside.

“Clear!”

“All clear!” came another voice from behind the smoky mist.

“Detective,” Jack called out.

“What is it?” he replied.

“Come on out to the terrace, I’ve got something you’ll want to see,” Jack responded with a hint of despair in his voice.

Edwards quickly rose from behind his sheltered counter and marched out towards Jim’s voice on the terrace – Cooper followed like a chick to its hen. Moving across the main floor of the café they carefully navigated their way through the maze of tables and the dense smoke still filling the room. As they exited out onto the terrace, they both squinted as the bright mid-day sun glaring down upon them. Jack stood over by the terrace balcony, his M-16 thrown over his right shoulder, standing directly over a black case and a hollow launch cylinder laid by its’ side. A sudden rage filled his veins as he spasmed into a fit of frustration, kicking the box as hard as he could, swearing like a sailor. The box slid across the floor to the balcony wall and bounced off it with a crack. Cooper stood there watching Edwards lose his cool, waiting for him to come back to his senses. Then he quieted, staring at the box, now knowing what had just happened. Next to the larger case was a smaller, more compact case, lay open on the floor. The case was filled with molded foam. In it were two depressions where two shells had once been. Cooper looked up and moved toward the overlook, dreading what he’d see on the other side. As he moved forward, joining Jack and crew who had already seen it, his stomach flipped inside is gut. He could hardly breath. What he saw was horrific. Only 80 yards away, the White House was burning. Smoke billowed from its north patio and right wing. People were strewn about all over the lawn. There looked to be fifty, maybe sixty casualties. Some lay still on their back with others hunched over them, while more ran in all directions in what looked like complete and utter chaos. Above, a dissipated band of white, wavy and disconnected smoke wallowed up into the blue sky about two hundred feet above the deck. Cooper couldn’t believe what he was seeing. Even after 9/11, a sight like this was something surreal – unimaginable. He stood there starring down upon the lawn for what seemed like an eternity – in awe and sheer shock at the sight. Emotions ran wild in his veins. His brain was in overload. A sense of furry came over him, boiling his blood as it flowed through his heart then up into his brain. The same furry that all Americans had felt as they watched the World Trade Center towers fall, enraging him again by the audacity of those who pull-off deeds such as these. The damage was localized but intense. The casualties were few, but the message was powerful. Even the President isn’t safe in today’s world. Cooper, Edwards, Jack and crew stood motionless for endless minutes staring into the confusion below. They were simply shocked.

Had the President survived? How many were wounded or killed and who in the hell had fired the rocket? By Cooper’s count, there were four they had to stop. Obviously they were wrong. There must have been a fifth man, but who? Where had they been hiding amongst all the gunfire and how had they disappeared without being spotted? Cooper couldn’t make sense of any of it. They had failed to stop something they knew was about to happen and they all knew it – feeling its weight crushing down upon them. A sense of hollowing defeat came over Cooper as he raised his hands to his face, covering his eyes, nose and mouth to clear his mind. He was sure Edwards was feeling the same. He could only imagine how responsible Edwards might be feeling, standing over such a display of hate and contempt against an American symbol of ideology. The men all stood there, their heads hung low in silent amazement.

Then Edwards pocket began to ring, waking them from their somber trance. Vibrating in his hands as he grabbed it, he flipped it open, looking to the screen to see whom it was. The chief. He flipped it open and answered.

“Edwards, what the hell’s going on?!” he yelled through the phone.

“Sir, I’m downtown. At the Hotel Washington.”

“I know, I know! What’s your status? Are you okay?” The chief asked. “I just got a call from the Hoover Building, a Special Agent in Charge wanted to know where you were and he sounded upset. I told him you had called for back up at the Hotel Washington. What the hell happened up there?” he said sounding exceptionally distressed.

“Sir, we’ve just had an assassination attempt on the President. I don’t know the status on the POTUS right now. I don’t know if he was hit or not.”

“He’s okay. The Secret Service has reported he was slightly injured but is now in an undisclosed location. All security forces are on stand-by and we’ve been ordered to provide any available manpower on this,” he said, “and I intend to. But first things first. Who the hell did this?”

“Not exactly sure,” Edwards replied, hesitating a little.

“What do you mean? What happened!”

“Sir, Cooper and I got to the hotel…”

“Cooper! You mean to tell me you brought the only witness to the case with you!” The captain screamed through the phone.

“Uh, yes sir. He was the only one who knew when and where. My crew was stuck in traffic and every minute counted. I didn’t have the luxury of waiting for backup,” Edwards replied. “He was the only one who could help me find the location. He has a manuscript, sir.”

“A what? What the hell are you telling me?”

“Sir, he has a script that helped us find these men. It’s what led us here.”

“Jesus Edwards. You’re not making any sense.”

“I know, it sounds crazy, but I…”

“We’ll talk about this later,” the chief replied, cutting him off mid sentence, “For now, you need to secure the scene and wait until the FBI gets there. You’ve got more to explain to them than me,” he said and then hung up.

Edwards turned back around to the scene below, shaking his head in absolute disbelief at what he saw. Cooper watched him as he stared down in shock, knowing what Edwards was thinking. Edwards’s felt like his heart had dropped to his feet and he began feeling shaky in his stance. He reached out to the barrister to stabilize his position, lifting his head back up. After a few seconds past, Edwards stood straight up and called for Jack.

“Yes sir!” Jack replied from close by.

“We’ve gotta secure the area. Right now! Every bit of this is evidence. We screwed up once, let’s not screw up the crime scene!” he said with a hint of desperate sarcasm.

“I’m on it!” Jack replied, calling out to his men to secure the area immediately.

Within minutes the place was teeming with Secret Service and FBI agents, a group of them hovered over the empty RPG cylinder on the terrace while the rest surveyed the kitchen where the downed men lay. Jack’s crew had their work cut out for them just trying to screen everyone wanting access to the crime scene.

Detective Edwards now found himself seated in a small service room across the hall from the Terrace café entrance. He sat with two men in black suits – a digital voice recorder lay on the table in front of him – it’s red LED light blinking as it recorded his every word. He began briefing the two FBI agents on the situation, spilling every detail of the last few hours to them as they intermittently interjected to get clarification on minor details. He wasn’t the only one being questioned. Jack and his crew were undoubtedly currently sequestered into their own questioning rooms, regurgitating their recollections of the incident as best they could recall. This was a common tactic in questioning – separate the witnesses or suspects, depending on the case and getting each of their stories separately – not allowing one to influence another’s story. Edwards downloaded every detail he remembered, knowing that a certain amount of blame and culpability would land on his shoulders very soon. Since 9/11, a rampant search for guilty parties had erupted into a fiasco of departmental finger pointing from the Administration to the director of the FBI. Edwards knew he now found himself in the same situation and not a leg to stand on.

Cooper was in the room adjacent to Edwards, but didn’t know it. He sat in a chair across from a small executive table in what appeared to be a well-appointed hotel room. Across the table were two more agents in similar black suits, leaning in towards him in a daunting manner. Cooper trembled in his chair. His heartbeat thumped through his chest as if ready to explode and had difficulty slowing his breathing. His hands began shaking incessantly at his sides as the weight of his predicament crushed down hard on his shoulders. He felt like a prisoner. They began questioning him, asking him to start from the beginning.

“What happened? What did you see? Who fired the rocket? What were you doing there?” they fired at him, giving him little time to answer between each new question. He answered each one as thoroughly as he could, letting them know of the sequence of events that had led to this point. Twenty minutes passed before the men sat back in their chairs, allowing Cooper to catch is breath. They didn’t look convinced.

“Tell me Cooper, what kind of car do you drive?” one of the agents asked him out of the blue.

“Uh, a BMW… why?” he answered.

“What color is it?”

“Blue… why do you ask?”

“We have a witness in the garage of the hotel who claims they saw a blue late-model BMW screaming up 14^th Street right after the attack, nearly running over one of our agents. Do you know anything about that?”

“Well I know I have not left yet. Detective Edwards and I parked a few blocks away and walked here on foot. Last I know, my car is still there.” Cooper answered, beginning to feel a little nervous. He remembered when Edwards had come to his home after having been attacked and was told that a blue BMW had been seen leaving the GW campus soon after a student had been killed in his dorm room, then again at Minchum’s car bomb. There was something strange about this car showing up at each of these attacks. Once was a coincidence, twice, not so much, three times was a concern.

“Where did you say you parked?” the agent asked.

“At the corner of 15^th and H I think.”

The agent leaned back in his chair and mumbled a few brief words into his microphone, pressing his earpiece to his ears and then he turned back to Cooper. Further questioning ensued before he abruptly leaned back in his seat, again, pressing his earpiece tightly into his ear.

“Cooper, we need the truth. Where is your car at this very moment?”

“What do you mean? I told you…”

“It’s not there. I just had an agent check the corner. A shop owner said he’d seen it there for a while, but it was now gone.”

“I have no idea! Was it stolen?”

“We don’t have time for games, now who’s working with you Cooper?”

“No one! Detective Edwards has been with me the entire morning. In fact, he’s the one who brought me down here in the first place.”

The agents were clearly befuddled by the recent attack and were working off of pure instinct and training to pull out any pertinent information on what had just transpired. They themselves weren’t even sure what they were after, but knew they needed some answers and needed them quick. Cooper licked his lips in an attempt to bring some moisture back to his mouth. They felt like they’d been glued together. His forehead gathered beads of sweat, but he quickly wiped them away – not wanting to show his anxiousness to the agents.

After an hour of interrogation, the two agents got up and left the room, closing the door behind them. Their departure from the room came as a relief to Cooper. He sat back in his chair and took a deep breath, letting it out slowly through his nose. A tingling sensation crept through his arms as a rush of fresh blood surged into his brain. The digital recorder still sat on the table in front of him, but the LED light was dark. They must have shut it off before getting up. Cooper had not only missed this, but could barely recall what the two agents looked like. His nerves had shrouded his daily senses in a fog like never before. Normally his recall of details was stellar, always able to pull the smallest details out of circumstantial happenstances. But the last hour was a blur. He couldn’t even remember where he’d started and where he’d finished with the two agents.

A knock came at the door, snapping him out of his uncomfortable episode of forgetful haziness. It swung open and Edwards walked in. His demeanor had changed. He now seemed upset, even irritated – no longer the helpless and defeated man he’d seen an hour go.

“Cooper, you doin’ okay?”

“Considering the circumstances, … yeah,” he replied. “I thought it would never end. The questions kept coming!” Cooper responded sounding a little victimized by the whole ordeal.

“Don’t worry Cooper, its all standard stuff, nothing to worry about,” Edwards replied.

“What’s next?”

“I’m on suspended leave and you’re on house arrest.”

“What! They suspended you?”

“I don’t blame them. I really screwed up here. Don’t worry, it’s only temporary.”

“It’s not your fault! You did everything you could,” Cooper interjected.

“Not to worry, things will come around. Once they review the facts, the circumstances under which I acted, they’ll reinstate me. It’s just gonna take some time.”

“What about me?” Cooper asked.

“You’re on house arrest. They don’t want you leaving home without specific authorization from them.”

“But…”

Just then the door swung open and an agent pointed at both of them.

“Gentlemen! Come with me please.”

Cooper swung around to look at Edwards with a curious expression creeping across his face. Edwards stared back, nodding to him to reassure him that it would all be okay. Cooper rose out of his chair as his hands began shaking again in anticipation of what was to come. He and Edwards followed the agent out of the room and down the narrow hallway. The lights were dim due to some remaining smoke lingering in the air, causing Cooper to cough a little as he walked. The agent marched down the hall, turning a corner and walking through a doorway into a room now filled with a criss-crossing array of wires and camera cables strewn across the floor. Several agents were in different positions in the room. Two of them sat next to each other in front of a television screen watching it intently as a third sat next to a small news camera and a laptop, seeming to be the video controller for the two agents in front of the screen.

“Have a seat right here,” the agent said.

“What’s going on?” Cooper asked Edwards.

“Not sure.” he responded, sounding a little curious himself.

The two agents in front of the screen stood up and turned towards them.

“Have a seat gentlemen.”

Cooper sat down to the right of Edwards. Sitting there for a few minutes while the agents seemed to huddle in the doorway to their right. The screen in front of them only showed static and they began to wonder what was next. The agents finished their discussion and broke apart. Two of the four came back into the room while the other two disappeared down the hall. One of them was clearly a senior agent, both in his age and demeanor. He approached Cooper and Edwards and sat down next to them near the camera sitting on the floor.

“It’s my understanding that you were both present when the rocket was fired, is this correct?”

“Yes,” Edwards responded.

“We have something we’d like you to have a look at,” the agent said. “We have some shots from the White House lawn we’d like you to review. We may have an image of the man who fire the rocket.”

“You got footage!?” Edwards said suddenly.

“Only a few seconds of feed. We understand that you were not witnesses to the launch, but were close by when it was fired. We need you to have a close look at the feed and let me know if anything jumps out at you… anything! The image is unstable but you might be able to make out the shooter, ” the agent said. With that, the agent reached down and pushed a few buttons on the camera. The man by the laptop wore a Press ID tag and was busy typing something on the keyboard. The screen crackled to life and the static image blipped into a still image of the hotel from the White House lawn. Cooper and Edwards focused on nothing but the screen as the feed began to play.

As the image danced around, it was immediately clear that the cameraman was trying to lift his camera up and into focus. A blur of colors and forms moved in and out of the picture as the camera was shifted about. Then, a split second later a clear picture of the Treasury building came into focus. Just above its roof they could see the terrace of the café atop the Hotel Washington. A burst of white smoke silhouetted a dark image just in front of it, seeming to be holding something on his shoulders.

“You’ve gotta be kidding!” Edwards blurted in disbelief.

“Shhh!” Cooper fired back.

The cloud of smoke now began to elongate and move towards the camera at incredible speed, leaving a trail of white contrasted against a clear blue sky behind what became evident as a rocket moving to the camera shot. A split second later the trail of the rocket went from a few hundred feet away to immediately slamming in to a spot close to where the camera was positioned. Again, the image went blurred from heavy movement by the camera handler, shaking violently from left to right and then the image went black.

“Jesus!” Cooper cried.

“This is all we’ve got. The camera comes back on seconds later, but the images are all aimed at the lawn and the impact area.”

“Can we see it again?” Edwards asked.

“Jim, play it again.” The agent asked of the man with the press tag on. Reaching down, he pressed a few buttons on the keyboard and the images replayed in front of them.

“Wait! Stop it right there!” Cooper exclaimed loudly.

“What, what is it?” the agent asked.

The cameraman stopped the image just when the rocket was being fired and the dark silhouette became pronounced in the burst of white smoke. It was an eerie sight – a dark shadow distinctly contrasted against a circular cloud of white.

“Can you zoom in on the figure there?” Cooper asked of the cameraman.

“Sure, give me a minute.” He replied. He moved around back in front of the laptop and began frantically punching keys to see what he could do with the image.

CHAPTER 22

Jim sat there working on the image as he reflected back on the morning’s events. He couldn’t believe this had all happened right before his own eyes and that he’d managed to capture the whole thing on camera. He thought back to when he woke up that morning. He’d gotten out of bed at about eight o’clock, showered and shaved and dressed up in his camera gear and vest, prepping himself for the mid-day press conference. He left his home in Bethesda around nine thirty and ventured out into the morning beltway traffic to meet Mark for breakfast at a local eatery near the corner of 18^th and L in downtown DC. Traffic was heavy as it always was and parking downtown cost a pretty penny. Normally he took the metro to the smaller shoots, but he needed too much equipment this time and had to load it all into the back of the network’s van. He’d finally found a garage with available spaces about one block east of the rendezvous point and parked just inside the gate. The sun cast sharp shadows against the mix of concrete and glass facades of the buildings lining either side of the street.

Jim found Mark already seated in a booth by the front window, chowing- down on an all-American breakfast while reading the mornings Washington Post. Typical, he thought. Mark never waited for anyone. It never struck him to show some common courtesy with respect to those he worked with in any scenario. Mark was known for his impudence and self-absorption. Once he set his mind to something, he rarely lessened his pace for anyone. This morning was no different. He had gotten there first, ordered his food and made no effort to wait for Jim, probably anxious to get going and be at the White House before any other crew – securing the best spot on the lawn.

Jim remembered the conversation they had over breakfast only hours earlier. Mark was excited about the day’s upcoming press conference and wanted to be sure everything would go smoothly. He wore his best tailored-suit and Gucci shoes and had more hairspray atop his head than ever before, wanting to look perfect for the camera.

Jim recalled Mark expressing his feeling on where he was headed with Channel 9, boldly telling Jim he wanted the anchor position and would settle for nothing less. He was tired of being the chief correspondent and wanted to be the star of the show. Jim acknowledged his plea with a smile and nod, knowing that would be the most he’d get in while Mark rambled on about his abilities and on camera presence. The second half of the conversation was nothing more than a blur, while Jim focused on enjoying his eggs benedict, bagel with cream cheese and coffee, licking his fingers when he finished. Mark was still rambling over his empty plate, his coffee had gone cold while he spoke. Good thing, Jim thought. Any more caffeine in Marks system and he might go on for hours. They rose from the table after settling their bill with the waitress, leaving a fair tip on the table for her as they walked out.

Mark had ridden the metro only a few stops from his ostentatious Pennsylvania Avenue apartment, which he commonly referred to as his lair. He often referred to himself as a wolf when it came to romance, giving his home the den-like name for effect. He carried his usual over-the-shoulder leather briefcase and a pair of dark shades. They walked down L Street back to the garage and got in the network van. As they drove south towards the White House, Mark continued on about his quest for stardom. He talked specifically about the day’s press conference, mentioning he would throw the Presidents nominee a curveball in post conference Q&A. He wanted to ask the new nominee what specific agenda he had to re-instate the Patriot Act and how he felt about the civil rights of those who might be monitored. Mark felt this was a topic that would put the new candidate in a position to state his stance and put his opinions to the test in front of the American public, without preparation or scripting. He wanted to come across as a hard hitter with the interests of the American public foremost, convinced this would increase his marketability and value to the network.

Jim saw this as a mistake but didn’t want to be the one to stop him. In fact, he might enjoy watching Mark stumble over words as he drew the wrong attention on himself.

But none of that really mattered anymore. The day had taken a turn for the worse and Jim knew it would be a struggle for him to get through it in one piece. Although, he was becoming more in tune with the fact that he was the sole possessor of real footage of the assassination attempt on the President of the United States – the leader of the free world. This could be huge – and the best part was that Mark was nowhere in the shot. He giggled a little at the thought of Mark missing out on such an opportunity, knowing he would resent the fact he had missed it by ducking for cover and out of the picture.

He refocused on the screen in front of him, cleaning up the pixels on each image as he zoomed in again and again. After several enlargements the picture had lost focus, but the shadowed image was now much larger. Mild contours of the face began to show from casted shadows of the sunlight from above.

“Can’t you clean the image up more than that?” Cooper asked him.

“I’m not sure. I’ve enlarged the shot several times. This kind of zooming has a tendency of losing clarity when done too much,” Jim replied.

“Do your best, we need to identify the face,” Edwards interjected.

After several more minutes of fiddling with the laptop, the image was not getting any better. Each time Jim attempted to enlarge or enhance the image, it became more and more pixilated, causing the image to square off and lose detail.

“This isn’t gonna work. I don’t have the right software here to manipulate the image the way we need to,” Jim said as he sat back from the computer. “I just can’t clean it up under this magnification. Anything over three hundred percent magnification just becomes a cubic blur.”

“We’ll have to relocate,” said one of the agents in the room. “We’ve got the ability back at J.E.H.B.”

“J.E.H.B.?” Cooper asked, not familiar with the acronym.

“The J. Edgar Hoover Building. We’re not far and we’ve got to see if we can get an ID on this guy,” the agent responded. “We’re only a few blocks away.”

Within minutes, the agents had gathered all the equipment scattered about the room. Jim had packed up his laptop and shoved it into his backpack. One agent walked over to Jim’s side and reached for the camera.

“You won’t need that. I’ve downloaded the file to the laptop.”

“I think it best we keep it all with us for now,” the agent responded. “I’m sure you wouldn’t want to lose this. It had to have cost a pretty penny.”

“Uh, well… yeah,” Jim responded, now feeling a little silly for getting so caught up in the imaging. The agent picked up the camera and walked to the door. Edwards, Cooper and Jim all in close tow. They passed by the entrance to the terrace café where a myriad of uniforms agents and police were scouring across the restaurant, presumably searching the room for any evidence left behind. They rode the elevator to the bottom and walked out through the front foyer. Parked curbside was a black Chevy Suburban with blacked-out windows, its engine running as they all climbed in. A man in a dark blue windbreaker with the letters FBI in yellow print on his back sat in the drivers seat, not turning around, closely watching the street around them. Two of the agents climbed in with them while the other two jumped in a matching Impala just behind them. Slamming the door closed, the driver stomped on the gas peddle and whipped out into the street, lights flashing from both the front and rear windows.

The ride there was silent. No one spoke a word. Cooper sat next to Edwards but was focused on the road ahead; preoccupied by the dark image he’d been looking at only minutes ago. He had found something eerily familiar about the man’s facial structure. He didn’t know what it was but hoped to find out when they got to JEHB. Until he could get a better look, he’d keep quite. Edwards sat window-side, staring out onto the passing street, wondering how this all could have happened. Still feeling responsible for not having stopped the attack, he retraced every move they made from the police station to the moment when the rocket was launched in the restaurant. He couldn’t piece it together. Jim sat in the back row next to one of the agents. Although overwhelmed by the whole situation, he couldn’t help feel a small sensation of excitement about having caught it all on camera. The sight was horrific, but the shots would lend him quite a bit of clout around the office and with his fellow cameramen.

Cooper had been so distracted by the events closing in around him that the thought had escaped him until now. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his cell phone, flipping it open to see only a little battery life remained.

“Sir!” an agent barked.

“I need to call my wife. That’s all?” he said.

“You can try but you’re not going to get any signal,” the driver said from the front seat.

“Why’s that?”

“This vehicle is normally part of the presidential motorcade. As a safety measure, a transmitter located under the vehicle jams all wireless signals. No wireless signals can come in or out. POTUS has his own operating frequency that he, his immediate staff and the motorcade protection have and that’s the only signal that can get in or out of this truck. Just a way of preventing an outsider from tracking a device from within the vehicle. Your call will have to wait until we arrive.” Cooper was amazed. When it came to POTUS, security measures were state-of-the-art. He looked down at his cell screen and sure enough, it had no signal registering – almost as if they were deep in a tunnel.

The SUV made a few more abrupt turns and finally entered into a small secure garage on the west side of the building. The inside of the SUV went dark, taking all of them a few seconds to adjust their eyes to the lack of sunlight. The door opened and the agent closest to it got out, holding it open for Cooper and the rest of the passengers, pointing to a door in front of them. One of the black suits marched over to it and pulled out his ID card from his suit pocket. He swiped it through the reader on the wall next to the door. He then entered a four-digit pass code into the keypad below the card reader and the red light turned to green with a subtle beep. The door latch clunked unlocked and he pushed open the door.

“This way gentlemen,” he said.

The hallway extended out before them. It was long, narrow and lined with different sized piping and tubes – most likely drainage and electrical arteries. The hallway appeared to stretch about two hundred feet ahead as they followed closely behind the group of agents in front of them. After only about fifty feet the men stopped at an elevator door on the left side of the hall. One of them pulled a key from their pocket and slid it in to a keyhole just below the elevator call button. Seconds later the doors opened.

“This way folks,” one of them spoke out, breaking the cold silence in the hall. Cooper slid into the elevator just behind Edwards. The doors closed and the elevator began to rise with an unexpected jerk. Cooper watched the numbers count up until it settled on number seven. The doors opened once the elevator came to rest and they all exited out onto the floor in front of them.

It was an open floor plan of desks and dividers in an odd linear arrangement across a cheaply carpeted floor. Men and women moved about the room, not paying any mind to the group standing before them. Phones were ringing incessantly and a bustle was rumbling throughout the room. Considering the day’s events, it struck Cooper as anything but unexpected. It looked like organized chaos. Although rushed and overwhelmed, they staff seemed to be moving about the room in a strangely organized fashion, answering every call and passing messages around like a finely tuned machine.

“This way please,” one of their escorts piped in.

They followed him down the south side of the floor to a set of glass-enclosed workstations off in the corner. Through the glass Cooper could see a slew of computer stations accompanied by mixing boards and large black boxes. The agents stopped in front of the first glass door and opened it, allowing Cooper, Edwards and Jim inside. The agents followed right behind, closing the door immediately behind them. One of them approached Jim and asked for the laptop he’d brought along. After a few words were exchanged, the agent took the laptop and disappeared out onto the open floor. It was almost twenty minutes before he returned with the computer – handing it back to Jim.

“Standard procedure sir. We had to make sure there was no wireless feed going in or out of this laptop. The bosses around here don’t like bringing in external devices unless they’re fully checked-out.”

Jim shrugged his shoulders and flipped open the laptop. He didn’t much care for what they did with it, as long as he got it back.

“These are S.I.S’s – satellite imaging stations,” one of the agents behind said. “We receive live-feed images and high altitude photographs directly from Langley and these computers are equipped with imaging software that is advanced enough to see a flea on a camel’s back with just a few keystrokes. You said you didn’t have the right equipment to get a good image of the shooter, well… now you do Jim.”

Jim scanned through the hardware sprawled out on the desk in front of him. With eager anticipation, he sat down and removed his laptop from its case, laying it out on the surface in front of him. Jim had never really seen equipment like this, only read about its potential existence in Popular Science and PCWorld. The tools at his fingertips generated a flesh flow of blood to his cerebrum and a jolt of adrenaline to his fingertips. He wasn’t versed on such circuitry, but was familiar with its mechanics. There were only three desk chairs in the room and the agents insisted that Cooper, Edwards and Jim fill them, while they stood behind.

Jim pulled out some wires from his satchel and untangled them nervously. Apparently he was now feeling the same pressure Cooper felt. Finally freeing the USB cable from the rest of the bundle, he reached behind the laptop and plugged it in, then leaned towards the black box on the floor next to the desk. Pulling it out from the wall, he plugged the other end of the cable into the back of the box. The agents behind them watched intently. He powered the laptop on and waited it to boot-up. Jim could feel the stares boring a hole in the back of his head. When the screen came to life, he jumped to the keyboard and looked over it for a few minutes. It was his laptop, but the desktop was now completely different, almost as if the icons were encrypted, labeled with names of which he knew nothing about. A voice spoke out behind him.

“Choose the VFM-12 file and open it. From there you should know where to go.”

He clicked on the icon and within seconds the computer opened up imaging software similar to his but with a massive rang of editing tools towards the right margin. Letting his eyes scan over all the tools, he pulled the image from the video up and began working on them diligently. Cooper and Edwards leaned in towards him, watching his every keystroke. The image on the screen was the same one they’d seen earlier, but was now enlarged and distinctively clearer. Jim punched a few more keys with growing anticipation as he zoomed in two or three more times until the face in the image became more and more clear, almost filling the entire screen. Cooper and Edwards leaned in, to the point where their chairs were on the verge of tipping right over. Jim tapped at a few more keys and then sat back in his chair.

“How’s that?” he asked those in the room.

The agents moved in closer, standing directly behind Cooper and Edward’s chairs. Cooper readjusted his chair, pulling it in closer to Jim’s vantage point, putting it back on all four legs. His eyes widened dramatically. All the blood that had rushed through his face had now flushed down to his feet, making them pulsate in his shoes. His face went white with shock. He stared at the screen in complete disbelief. Cooper shifted again in his chair, feeling the stare of the agent standing over him. He briefly glanced up to the agent, his eyes locking on to their stare and then broke away and looking back to the screen. He swallowed hard. Every one of his veins throbbed while each of his nerve endings sent signals to his skin, creating a sudden outbreak of goose bumps and a strong tingling sensation across his upper body. He simply didn’t believe what he was seeing. He blinked to be sure. It simply couldn’t be.

CHAPTER 23

Mark stood, observing a scene he thought he’d never witness again in his lifetime. It looked like something out of a movie. His brain couldn’t accept that it was all real, but rather wanted to convince himself that it was all a big show, make-believe, an impressive display of Hollywood special effects. The grounds were still smoldering and a traffic jam of emergency vehicles now blocked his view of those still laying on the ground, injured or killed. He stood behind the gates leading into the White House grounds, but stood within the roped-off secure zone the Secret Service and D.C. police had set up in a two-block perimeter around the presidential home. A massive crowd had gathered behind the barriers – all desperate to see what had happened.

With all the chaos surrounding him, something felt strange. There was an odd silence in the air, both from the White House grounds and from the swelling crowd behind him. He could smell fear and horror lofting through the air. His fingertips were shaking as he reached forward and grasped the iron gate in front of him, using it as a crutch to lean on. His breathing was slowing and his heart rate was dropping, allowing fatigue to settle in. The huge surge of adrenaline that had put him in an elevated state of awareness was quickly fading and the sheer shock of it all was now hitting him.

About thirty minutes ago, he’d watched as Jim and two other men were whisked away in an unmarked convoy of blacked-out, government-issue Chevy Suburbans to an unknown destination, leaving him to fend for himself. Having just finished recanting what he’d witnessed to a Secret Service agent on the grounds, Mark was told not to leave the city until authorized to do so. He was now a living witness to the attack. The agent had written down all his information from his driver’s license and media ID and made it blatantly clear he was not to leave the Washington area until authorized to do so from the Secret Service. The agent had finished with him and moved on to another and another and another until covering each surviving witness, getting every detail of what they had seen.

He leaned in toward the iron gate until his face lay centered between to bars. He watched as the injured were tended to by the huge array of emergency personnel scurrying from one blood covered victim to another. A Heli-Vac chopper was lifting off from the grounds to his left as another hovered overhead until the landing zone was clear of the first. Each time an ambulance left with a victim, a new one pulled into its spot. The injuries were severe and the body count was rising. Smoke still billowed into the air around the scene as fire crews worked on extinguishing the flames. Having been there, standing in the crowd as the rocket struck, Mark knew that the majority of the injured were press. He watched as his peers were rolled away on stretchers, some covered in black tarps while other screaming in pain. It was horrible. A tear pooled at the bottom of his eyelid but he quickly wiped it away. The whole scene mustered up the same desperate feelings he’d felt on 9/11. It was a disparaging feeling of disappointment, frustration and sadness that he’d never forget.

He’d lost a good friend at the Pentagon when the plane slammed into the eastern face of the building. A woman he’d befriended and grown affection for. She was a Major in the Air Force and they’d met at a press conference years ago. She was the one. She had grace, sensitivity and style and she seemed to be just as keen on him as he’d been on her. She’d been seated at her desk when she died, having just spoken with her minutes earlier about plans for lunch that day. Then the plane hit and he never saw her again.

The pain and utter sadness he felt then had come back in full force now. He couldn’t stand to watch, but couldn’t bring himself to walk away. The scene was illusory yet plainly real. After several more minutes, he pushed off from the gate and turned to walk back to his van.

Pulling the keys from his pocket, he shoved them in the door and hoisted himself into the drivers seat. He reached over to the radio on the dash and switched it on. The radio was set to their affiliate radio news network on 107.3 FM and the buzz was all over it. The host was announcing the recent attack on the President and his voice sounded saddened and subtle. Apparently, the news had spread quickly as the crackled voice announced that a military grade, surface-to-air, shoulder launched rocket had just been fired from the rooftop of the Hotel Washington and hit the grounds of the White House close to where the President was delivering his nomination speech for the new head of the CIA. The irony bled through the airwaves and out into Marks ears. The radio voice continued, announcing that the President had survived the attack and was in an undetermined safe house, now being treated for minor injuries. He continued to say that the amount of injuries and dead was still undetermined, but was estimated at ten or twenty people. Emergency crews were struggling to maneuver through the flooded streets to tend to the wounded. Apparently there was no claim of responsibility at this point, but speculation was running rampant. Mentions of Al-Queda, Hesballah, Hamas were to be expected, but there was more. Groups from Central and South America have surfaced in the speculations, possibly funded by the drug cartels from Nicaragua to Colombia, upset over recent military actions in the crop fields of their highlands. Even mentions of Darfur and retaliation over inaction from the west in the face of genocide. He went on and on, talking with several experts in terrorism and American foreign policy.

The speculations and expert analysis went on and on. Mark shook his sunken head while slumped in his seat in dismay. Having been in the business a while, he’d seen his share of the so-called experts and knew that their opinions were no more valuable than Chris Berman’s picks for the Superbowl in week one of the NFL season – it was all just conjecture, speculation. In time the answers would come to the gritty surface, but not from them. The truth of the attack would surface only when the masterminds behind it decided it was right. For now, all that could be done was tend to the wounded and secure what was left of our national dignity.

Sitting there in the van, he felt a strange sensation in his right front pocket. It snapped him back to reality. He reached down and pulled out his cell phone. Lifting it in front of his face, he saw the caller ID on the illuminated screen. He’d missed the call and apparently eight others according to the digital read-out. In all the chaos, he’d completely forgotten to check it. Just before the Presidents arrival, he’d switched off the sound, not wanting it to ring while filming the President. He flipped it open and pressed the select key to see that his office had tried to reach him eight different times. He hadn’t even noticed. He scrolled to the last phone number missed and punched the call button. Lifting the phone up, he pressed it against his ear. Just then a sharp needle-like sensation came over his ear, acting like a shard of glass being jabbed into the left side of his head. He dropped the phone immediately and recoiled in pain. As quickly as it struck him it dissipated. He leaned forward to the rear-view mirror and looked at himself in the reflection. As he turned his head, he could see a small cut above his ear. A small sharp object stuck out of his skin. He reached up and pulled it out. It was the size of a sewing needle and appeared to be a shard of marble, possibly from the mansion’s patio. It must have hit him in the explosion – his adrenaline disguising the cut until now. It bled only mildly as he wiped it clean with some tissue from the glove box. As he did when he cut himself shaving, he tore a small piece of the tissue off and stuck it to the cut above his ear.

He bent down and picked up his phone from the floor. It rang again. Lifting it up to his ear, he heard a worried voice calling his name on the other end of the line. It was Jon, his boss at the station.

“Mark, Mark! You there?” Jon hollered.

“Yeah, I’m here,” he answered.

“Mark, are you alright? We thought you…”

“I’m alright,” Mark answered quietly into the receiver. “Jim too. We were lucky.”

CHAPTER 24

Cooper sat motionless in front of the monitor before him. He simply couldn’t believe his eyes. Shifting uncomfortably in his seat, he looked around the room at his counterparts who were intently analyzing the image on the screen. The room was dead silent. The advanced software capabilities at the FBI had enhanced the image enough to bring the necessary features of the man’s face to light. Cooper shifted again while staring back at the screen. The agent behind him watched him closely, realizing Cooper was uncomfortable with the image in front of him.

“Sir,” the agent spoke out to Cooper. “Do you recognize this man?”

Cooper sat up. His heart rate accelerated suddenly. He wasn’t sure how to respond to the agent’s question. He turned to the others in the room and licked his dry, emaciated lips. Would they believe me? Did he believe it himself? He was torn and beyond confused.

“I… I think so,” he responded.

“Who is he?!” the agent snapped.

“I don’t understand it all… but the man on the screen is…

“Is who?!”

It’s… Elliot,… Elliot Minchum.”

Edwards sat motionless, staring at Cooper in amazement of what he’d just said. The agent directly behind Cooper turned to the other next to him.

“Run a profile on this… Elliot Minchum.”

The second agent turned and walked out of the glass media room and out onto the bustling main floor. He sat at one of the cubicles and began typing immediately at an oversized computer monitor.

“How do you know this man?” the agent asked Cooper, now standing out as the SAIC -Special Agent In Charge. Cooper chuckled in a nervous twitched, then quickly reset himself. He couldn’t believe it, why should they?

“This is the author I represented. He… he was recently killed in the car-bombing in Alexandria… or so I thought.”

“I don’t follow,” the agent said, sounding confused. “You’re telling me this is the man identified as the victim in the bombing? Sir… are you sure of this? I need to you to take another look,” the agent requested. Cooper looked back to the screen. He knew what he saw, but considering the circumstances, it was more than a reasonable request. Staring directly into the eyes in the image in front of him, Cooper found himself recalling his time spent with this man. How could this be him in the picture? It perplexed him to no end.

“Sir?”

“It’s him. It’s Minchum. I just don’t understand how,” Cooper responded. “I saw his body. I saw him slumped face-down in the wreckage. His body was burned beyond recognition!”

“Were you the one who identified the victim at the scene?”

“Well, no. I was never asked by the authorities and frankly, I really had no reason to doubt what I’d seen.”

“Sir, what did you actually see?” the agent asked.

Cooper slid back in his chair, suddenly struck by the weight of the question. He’d never thought to wonder who really lay there in front of him in the shredded wreckage. It had all happened so fast, so unexpectedly. His only recollection of it all was the pure shock of discovering a friend, killed, mangled and slumped over the front seat of his burning car. The moment had overcome him and his mental acuity had been marginal at best.

“I saw his body… a… body, charred and mangled laying over the seat of the car. It was him, I’m sure of it. The cloths on the body matched what he’d been wearing at lunch. It was slumped over the front seat of the car, a blue Infiniti. It was badly damaged, but the car was blue and I could make out the Infiniti emblem on the back trunk lid. It was definitely his car. From that point I backed away from the wreckage without ever giving it a second thought. I was pretty upset,” Cooper explained.

“Sir, did you ever actually see the face? How can you be sure it was really him?” the agent countered.

“I… never saw a face, but I’m sure if I had, there wouldn’t have been much of it left to see. Like I said, the body was slumped face-down in the wreckage.”

“So you simply assumed it was him?”

“Well, yeah. Why would I think otherwise?” Cooper responded, feeling a little under the gun. “Minchum and I were friends,” he replied defensively.

“How good of friends were you sir?” the agent asked.

“Well, we had met about six months ago at a publishing expo in Paris. We hit it off and I signed on as his publishing agent.”

“What do you really know about his past?” the agent continued digging. His words were like a sharp-edged shovel and Coopers reputation was the dirt. Edwards sat across the room, staring at Cooper in shock at his revelation on the man’s identity.

The agent who had left the room earlier came back in. His demeanor was serious and his words were razor sharp. In his hand was a stack of paper about an inch thick. He marched over to the SAIC and handed him the pile.

“Sir, here’s his file. You may want to look at these,” he whispered.

With that the two men exited the room and back down onto the main floor, out of sight from the glass enclosed cell they now found themselves in. The remaining agent stood motionless in front of the door, his hands crossed in front of him, staring at the wall behind them. Cooper looked to Edwards who returned the glance.

“What’s going on?” Cooper asked Edwards with timid trepidation.

“Cooper, you’ve just identified the man who made an assassination attempt on the President of the United States. On top of that, you disclosed that you were friends with the man.. and.. that you were present during his supposed death, which we now have to assume was faked.”

“Faked! Are you telling me that was someone else’s body lying in the car?” Cooper sounded panicked now.

“There’s no other explanation. Are you sure that’s Minchum on that screen?” Edwards said with a parental tone in his voice, pointing to the monitor.

“That’s Minchum, believe me I know him!” Cooper responded with an anxious tone. Edwards slid his chair across the floor to the point where he was inches from Coopers face. He leaned in towards him with a focus in his eyes, which made Cooper uncomfortable, even a touch threatened.

“If that’s him, than you have just labeled yourself as a potential accomplice in their eyes,” Edwards said in a whisper. “You better have your facts straight.”

“What! I had nothing to do with this. Seeing him there is as much a shock to me as it is to anyone else in here.”

“Cooper, think about it! You were the only one who knew Minchum, you had business ties with him and, for some reason and he sent you a copy of a manuscript that clued you in to what was about to happen. He included you in his plot.”

“But…,” Cooper started.

“Cooper! Have you been straight with me! This is no time to hide anything. The flooding, the location and the rocket, it was all laid out for you.”

Cooper sat back in shock. Not only was the FBI looking at him as an accomplice, but also even Edwards had his doubts about him. Where did this leave him? He was being held in a glass cell somewhere in the Hoover Building, the FBI was now scrutinizing Coopers file and the one person he felt had his back was now turning on him, questioning him. How could this all be happening? He began to feel like a gazelle trapped in a ravine while a pride of lions circled around him, smelling fresh blood. He felt queasy, bewildered and desperate to find a way out. His nerves were on end and he began to sweat profusely. What the hell was going on? His muscles bound up like a knotted rope, creaking under the binding pressure. He sat rigid in his chair, waiting for the return of the two agents. What did they have? What was in that file? Cooper looked back into Edward’s eyes.

CHAPTER 25

Dorothy paced feverishly back and forth in their living room. Her heart ached in fear. She’d just seen what had happened at the White House on TV and was now in a frenzy of uncertainty and panic. Channel 9 news replayed the clip over and over again. The images were shaky while the camera was focused on the President, standing behind his podium, speaking to the crowd of media cameras in front of him. He had just finished delivering his nomination for head of the CIA, Jack Hines, when the rocket appeared in the top left corner of the screen and slammed into the shot, throwing the camera into a blur of zigzagging images until the shot went dark. Seconds later, the image reappeared as a scene of utter chaos. It resembled a war zone. In the background Dorothy could see the Secret Service huddling around a man, lifting him to his feet and running him out of the shot. A body lay where they had stood. Dorothy had thought it might be the President until the channel announced that the body left behind was that of Jack Hines, the Presidents new nominee, struck down by that which he vowed to protect against.

Jack Hines had risen from a poor suburban neighborhood on the northeast side of Detroit as a child. He’d made his way into college on a partial football scholarship and had graduated with a degree in criminal justice. He’d gone on to attend law school at Cornell University where he began creating rings throughout the intelligence community with his research into the Constitutional validity of the Patriot Act and legalized ease dropping across the national community. He’d moved from Ithica, New York to Washington, D.C. to work for the NSA and as their power-packed rookie protégé, guarding the NSA’s eavesdropping secrets from the rampant litigation coming from the private sector. He’d moved up the ranks with blinding speed until he’d reached Assistant Director of the NSA, becoming the youngest in the position in the history of the agency. Just as the previous CIA director stepped down, Hines received a call from the President requesting his service as the new Director. Hines knew it was a risk in the current international political atmosphere, but found it hard to turn down the Presidents request.

Now he lay lifeless in the backdrop of a split second scan from news camera footage and according to the anchor, was now dead – only seconds in his new position trying to counter what had just taken his life. The anchor, Sarah Winslow, went on to say that the President had narrowly escaped the attack, only suffering minor wounds from small shrapnel from the impact. She went on about the source of the projectile and moved immediately into snapshot interviews with key witnesses and situational analysts of so-called experts in the field of terrorism.

Dorothy tried Coopers cell phone repeatedly with no success. Each time she’d dial the number, it would immediately go to voicemail without ringing. Thoughts raced through her mind as she chewed on the inside of her mouth, pacing back and forth across their living room floor. The news showed replay after replay of the attack, driving Dorothy to the edge. This could only mean one of a few things. Either his cell phone was turned off, out of juice, or Cooper was injured and his phone damaged in the attack. The latter rang strong in her head, fearing the worst had happened. She had no idea where he was, but had little doubt he’d been in harms way. She picked up her cell phone again, hoping he’d pick up, but just as she began to dial, the wall phone in the kitchen began to ring, startling her. She dropped her cell on the maple-top table in the living room, making a dull thud as it hit the surface and bounced to the floor. She reached the phone on the second ring, virtually ripping it off the wall as she lunged.

“Coop! Hello… Cooper is that you!” she answered in a state of panic.

“It’s me babe… I’m okay,” Cooper answered.

Dorothy gasped in relief, sliding slowly down the wall behind her until her butt hit the floor. She clutched the phone like it was a pigeon messenger rustling to escape her grasp.

“Coop… Jesus!… thank you. Are you all right? What’s going on? Where are you? What…”

Cooper cut her off. She had a tendency to ramble when she worried.

“It’s okay, I’m alright. I just wanted to call you and let you know I’m okay. This is the first chance I’ve had to call you.”

“Where are you?” she asked again.

“I’m down at the FBI headquarters with Detective Edwards. We’ve been reviewing some tapes from the attack, trying to figure out what happened.”

“What do you mean what happened? It’s pretty obvious isn’t it?” Dorothy replied snidely. Cooper ignored the sarcasm, knowing good and well she got this way when under stress. She was the love of his life, but she had her moments.

“I don’t know how to tell you this, but after looking closely at the tapes, we were able to catch the shooter in one of the frames. Their computers down here were able to zoom in on the image and…” he stopped short.

“And what? What is it?” she answered.

“Well, we’ve been able to identify the shooter. It… it’s Minchum.”

“What do you mean? I don’t follow,” she replied, now even more confused.

“After enhancing the image, Minchum’s face came clear in front of me. I don’t know how to explain it either. Crazy things are happening and I’m right in the middle of it.”

“But he was killed. You were right there when it happened!” she answered.

“I know, I know. I’m still trying to piece everything together myself,” Cooper answered back. “Nothing makes any sense, but we have him on video, there’s no question in my mind that the face in the frame is Minchum.”

“Are you sure?”

“Hun, I’m not sure of anything right now. At this point, I think I’m under question.”

“What?! Under question! Why?” Dorothy jolted back.

“I think it took them by surprise that I knew the shooter. On top of that, I’m not even sure Edwards doesn’t doubt me. He’s been questioning me about the student killed at GU and a blue BMW showing up after. Then it showed up after the bombing as well and again, today near the White House. Not to mention I had a copy of a manuscript, from Minchum, that literally told a story that came true. I have to admit, if I were in their shoes, I’d be taking a hard look at me too.”

“But you were his publishing agent, you’re supposed to have his scripts. They can’t put any of this on you!” she said sounding worried.

“It’s okay babe, we’ll be alright,” Cooper said reassuringly, knowing good and well the FBI could put anything on anyone if they really wanted to. Someone would be blamed for this and Cooper had to make sure it wasn’t him.

“I’ve gotta go. I’ll call you back as soon as I can. I love you.”

“But…”

Cooper hung up.

CHAPTER 26

Cooper flipped his phone closed. He was frustrated. Dorothy had tried to console him, but it had only made his fears grow stronger. There he was, sitting in this glass cage of an office, about to be labeled as part of one of the biggest attacks against the U.S. President in modern times. This scared the hell out of him. He didn’t know what his next move should be. Detective Edwards sat across from him while the two agents sat at a desk just beyond the glass panes, intently studying the pages of a mysterious file.

They continued flipping from one page to the next, occasionally looking up from the file to cross-reference the FBI data links available on the computer screen in front of them. Minutes passed before they closed the file, conversed privately for a minute, then stood up from the desk. Just as they did, a man walked up to where they stood. He was a tall African-American man with shoulders of a linebacker. He had to be almost seven foot tall. His head was cleanly shaved and the shine from his scalp reflected the fluorescent lights overhead, making his head look like a polished bowling ball. He didn’t look happy – quite the opposite. The wrinkles on his brow looked more like the ruffled skin of a Shar Pei, one overlapping the other. Within seconds, he was jamming his finger into the file that lay on the desktop. Cooper waited for his finger to snap at any moment. The glass was insulating the sound from the other room, but it was clear they were getting their asses chewed pretty good. The man looked furious, screaming at them while waiving his finger in their faces. A few seconds later, he slammed his fist down on the desk and walked off. The two agents stood there for a minute collecting themselves. They moved from the desk and marched back into the glass tower, throwing the file down on the desk in front of Cooper.

“You say you were a business partner of Minchum’s?” the shorter agent asked, now wearing a clip-on name-badge on his lapel. Cooper looked closely at it and read the name McCaffrey.

“Well, yeah. I was his publishing agent. I work for Anderson Publishing

and he recently signed as one of our authors. He writes mystery…”

“We know!” McCaffrey cut him off.

“I’m sorry?” Cooper responded, a little surprised by his insight.

“How long have you known Minchum?”

“About a year, maybe less. Why?”

“Some things have come to light. We’re trying to understand your

relationship a little better,” McCaffrey remarked.

“Come to light?” Cooper repeated. “What do you mean?”

“What can you tell us about Minchums novels?”

“They’re your typical thriller novels about Islamic fundamentalism and

global terrorism.”

“What about Minchums past, what do you know about him?”

“We met in Paris, at a book expo. We became friends and he moved back

to the U.S. recently to launch his newest book into the market.”

“What about before he lived in Paris?” McCaffrey continued.

“Well, we never really went that far back. I guess I assumed he lived in

Paris for quite a while. Why?”

“Would it surprise you to know he lived in Israel, Tel-Aviv specifically?

for many years?”

“Well, I didn’t know that, but it doesn’t surprise me I guess.”

“What do you mean?”

“His insight into Islam was unbelievable. His books were well informed

and very accurate. His time in Israel must have provided him with a lot of research material and observational input on the nation of Islam and Israel”

“Were you aware of his marriage to a Palestinian woman?”

“Uh… no, not at all. He never mentioned it to me,” Cooper responded

with a little surprise in his voice.

“So you were not aware that she was killed only a couple of years after

they wedded.”

“She was killed. No. How?” Cooper responded in disbelief.

“In a raid.”

“A what!?” Cooper wasn’t sure where this was going.

“A home raid. A unit of Army Special Forces raided their home on a false

lead. They broke in and Minchum resisted. As they tried to gain control of the situation, Minchum had pulled out a handgun and pointed it towards the men. They opened fire, missing him and striking his wife in bed behind him. It wasn’t until later that the unit discovered they’d entered the wrong home.”

“You said special forces. Were they a Palestinian brigade?” Cooper

asked with a curious hesitation in his voice.

“Not exactly,” McCaffrey answered.

“Who were they?”

“Our boys.”

“You mean U.S. boys? She was killed by our guys?” Cooper responded

in shock.

“That’s correct.”

“You sure!”

“We have the report right here. I want to make it very clear that this is

confidential information. I would suggest you choose not to share this with anyone.” Cooper sat back in shock. Minchum had never mentioned any of this. But why not? He couldn’t make sense of it all. Why would he have hid this from him? Minchum had been very upfront with his books and his time in Paris. Why would he mislead me like this?

“So he never told you about the incident?” McCaffrey continued.

“No. Never.”

“So he never told you about any of his time in Jericho?”

“No! Nothing.”

“Does the P.L.O. mean anything to you?”

“Sure. It stands for the Palestinian Liberation Organization. It’s a

Palestinian secular front organized to create a Palestinian homeland in Israel. They originated as a small militant faction front against Israel but grew much larger over the last three decades. They’re now seen as an internationally recognized peaceful organization to create balance between the Jews and the Palestinians in Israel. Why?”

“Were you aware of Minchum’s relationship with one of their paramilitary factions?”

“What! What do you mean?” Cooper demanded.

“Soon after his wife’s death, Minchum had befriended one of these

factions. The As-Sa’iqa Ba’athist militant faction. He participated in their secret meetings and supported them monetarily through fund transfers from his account in Switzerland.”

“How can you be sure?” Cooper asked, having a difficult time believing

all this.

“Bank records, wire taps, surveillance. He occasionally would transferred

funds from his U.S. bank, but quickly moved it to an untraceable Swiss account. ”

“Wire taps, surveillance, Swiss bank accounts! Are you serious!?”

“Very!” McCaffrey responded. “He switched sides. He flipped on us.”

“On us?” Cooper caught it. “What do you mean on us?”

The two agents looked at one another briefly.

“He was one of ours. A C.I.A. agent.”

“What!”

“He’d been with us for almost eight years before she was killed.”

“Are you saying he was a spy?”

“No. Simply an embedded agent – there for monitoring the PLO. But after

the incident, his allegiance seemed to turn. We lost him. Couldn’t find him anywhere. He simply vanished.”

“Vanished? What do you mean? He’s been writing for years. His name

is out in the public eye. He hasn’t tried to hide at all.”

“I don’t think you follow.”

Cooper took a second to attempt to figure it out on his own to no avail.

McCaffrey continued, “His real name is not Elliot Minchum.”

CHAPTER 27

Detective Edwards sat still in his chair, watching Coopers reaction to the news. His eyes were keen on any subtle body language that may prevail. He didn’t move, knowing from past interrogations, that the less he moved, the more the other would show their true colors. Edwards wasn’t convinced of anything. The facts were confusing and he needed something to point him in the right direction. All he really knew was how to read a person. So far, Cooper hadn’t displayed any of the normal behaviors of someone who was lying. He couldn’t figure it out. He continued watching.

Cooper remained motionless in his chair, shocked at what agent McCaffrey had just divulged. He was stunned by the news presented to him.

“What do you mean it’s not his real name? Are you serious?”

“His real name is Demitri. Demitri Erobos. He was born in Argos,

Greece and moved to the United States when he was thirteen. He attended school in Fairfax County and moved on to attend Cornell University where he received a Masters in Criminal Justice. The FBI had heavily recruited him, but we lost him to the C.I.A. He continued his education while with the C.I.A. and received his Ph.D. in criminal psychology. He was eventually sent on assignment by the Agency to the Gaza Strip to monitor the P.L.O. while the region remained in constant political turmoil. He’s a product of the system. Unfortunately, we lost him. We made a mistake and he flipped.”

Cooper sat there in shock. His brain couldn’t absorb the incessant barrage of sudden Intel on a man Cooper had thought he’d known all this time. It was all surreal. It felt like they were describing another man – one Cooper had never met. Demitri Erobos? An unfamiliar name – an unfamiliar history. Thoughts raced through the neuron in his brain as he tried to piece the puzzle together. He was stunned, speechless, frozen where he sat. The room seemed to begin to spin around him, making him dizzy. What the hell is going on? I don’t believe this. Minchum… never! His mind raced with thoughts of his times with Minchum. Why?

Detective Edwards watched Cooper closely. Suddenly he jumped up from his chair and dove towards Cooper as he began to slump in his chair. Without warning, Coopers eyesight went flush and he slouched to his left. Edwards reached out and grabbed his side, pushing him back up straight where he sat, awakening him from his sudden faint spell. Coopers eyes refocused as he turned to see who had caught him from his fall.

“Cooper, you alright?” Edwards asked him.

“Uh,… yeah, I’m okay. Just a little dizzy.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah, I’ll be fine. Thanks.”

Cooper sat straight up in his chair and wiped the beaded sweat from his forehead. Now he looked more alert. Edwards kept watching him closely, now concerned about his condition. The room was tepid and the stress was getting to him. Edwards sat back in his chair. No one was speaking at this point. All eyes were on Cooper. Jim sat quietly in the corner feeling uncomfortable about his inclusion in all of this. Edwards became more mystified the longer Cooper sat there. His body mannerism and instinctive reactions weren’t telling Edwards that Cooper was lying. In fact, the news seemed to hit Cooper harder than he’d originally thought. McCaffrey was watching Cooper just as intensely as Edwards was. Their training had some commonalities – both had some degree of schooling in observing the accused, watching their movements and making assessments on degrees of guilt based on their mannerisms and body language. Neither seemed convinced either way, yet Edwards grew more troubled. Things didn’t add-up.

“Are you sure there’s nothing you need to tell us about Demitri or Minchum?”

“Nothing. I trust you know a hell of a lot more than I do at this point.”

“We need you to help us fill in some holes,” McCaffrey added, moving the interrogation along.

“Like what?”

“What kind of car do you drive?”

“A BMW, why?”

“Correct me if I’m wrong. A blue five series?”

“Yes.” Cooper answered, knowing what was coming next.

“Are you aware this same car was spotted leaving the scene at

Georgetown University just about the time of the student killing?”

“Yes, Detective Edwards has already questioned me on this. I can assure

you it was not my car.”

“Are you aware who the student was?”

“Yes, he was the one who attacked me coming home from the metro.”

Cooper’s frustration began to build. He had already gone through all this with Detective Edwards at the station and more since then. This immediately reminded Cooper of the two men impersonating FBI agents were in the interrogation room. “Agent McCaffrey, are you aware that you have two men impersonating F.B.I. agents meddling in this investigation. Why don’t you go find them?” Cooper snapped back.

“For what it’s worth, the two men were found about an hour after

Detective Edwards reported it to us.”

“And… who were they?”

“Both were Palestinian Nationals with U.S. passports. Muscle men for a

P.L.O. embedded faction. They were found on a pull-off on the George Washington Parkway about an hour after they left you. Both had been shot point-blank in the head. Whoever they were working for got the information they wanted and finished them off. Strangely enough, a blue BMW was seen leaving the pull-off as our men responded to the call.”

“I can assure it wasn’t mine. I have been with Detective Edwards all

Morning,” Cooper responded, trying to cover his shock at the news.

“He’s right. He’s never left my company,” Edwards blurted, now

confused himself. “The car seems to be a weird coincidence.”

McCaffrey hesitated for a minute. Trying to regain his flow of questioning, he snapped back to Cooper. McCaffrey knew if Cooper was going to talk, he had to get him now.

“What other business have you had with Minchum?”

“What do you want from me? I told you what I know!” Cooper now

sounded a little upset, “I’m lost for words. I’m still trying to digest what you’ve just told me.”

McCaffrey just stood there, staring at Cooper, still watching his reaction, waiting for some specific tell-tale twitch or slip of the tongue that would indicate to him that Cooper was hiding something.

“Why did he send you his script?” McCaffrey continued with the

barrage of questioning.

“What do you mean?”

“The script, why did he email it to you?”

“I’m his publishing agent, why do you think?!” he cracked back.

“How can you explain the fact that his manuscript was a virtual blueprint?

for today’s attack on the President?”

“I don’t have the slightest idea.”

“What would you think if I told you this was not the first time his script?

matched an event?”

“What! What do you mean?” Cooper perked up with anxious curiosity.

“I’d assume you’ve read AGENT 12,… his previous novel.”

“Yes, of course.”

“Were you aware that this story also had some truth to it. In fact, it told a

tale that got six of the N.S.A.’s men killed about two years ago, just before he released his book on the European market.”

“What!?!” Cooper yelled.

“As you know, the script told the story of twelve operatives imbedded in

Afghanistan’s mountainous northwest Hindu Kush region, infiltrating the ranks of Al Queda.”

“Yes, that’s right…”

“Well, did you know that his script exposed the identity of our operatives?

and only six of them survived?”

“I… I don’t…” Cooper didn’t know how to respond.

“Six men died due to his so-called fictional story. He purposely exposed

our men.”

“But why? Why would he do such a thing?”

“He’s flipped on us. He obviously hasn’t taken the death of his wife very

well and now is thinking payback. His loyalty has shifted and now he’s coming after us.”

“How did he know they were there? It’s impossible.”

“He’s looped in somewhere in the system. We’ve either got a mole or

he’s found a back door. But he’s being very selective about his attacks. Why?”

“How should I know?” Cooper responded irritated at the connotation.

“Well, he sent you the last script, how do we know he didn’t send you the

previous one?”

“Why? I have nothing that would help him.”

“Are you sure of that?” McCaffrey piped back in.

Detective Edwards leaned in, curious for Coopers response.

“Such as…?”

“What about your wife?”

Edwards was caught off guard. He didn’t see that coming and had no idea where McCaffrey was going with it. Cooper glanced over at him with a look of despair. He was beginning to feel helpless against the onslaught of incoming interrogative curveballs. He didn’t know what to think of it all. Much more of this and he’d crumble under the pressure. These guys were pushing as hard as they could and wouldn’t stop until they got out of him what they wanted. He couldn’t take much more of it. The room shrunk with every new question. He couldn’t fathom why on earth they’d bring up Dorothy. They must be desperate, he thought. Sitting there speechless, he recalled a scene from a movie in which a suspect was being interrogated about a murder in which he was being falsely accused. In order to coerce him into talking, they began accusing friends and family in order to appeal to his sense of guilt. Within minutes, he’d admitted to a crime he hadn’t committed. Cooper started to unravel their game plan. Although furious now, he regained some composure and sat straight in his chair.

“My wife has had nothing to do with any of this. I advise you leave her out of it.”

“What is her relationship with Minchum?”

“None, she simply knew of him through me.”

“Can you explain why she would have responded to an email from?

Minchum from your computer six hours after the car-bombing in which he was apparently not killed?”

“I… I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“We traced an email from a wireless hotspot from his Yahoo account to

yours and back to his address after his time of death. Roughly 1 a.m. our time.”

Cooper sat stagnant in his chair. He thought back to when Dorothy had picked him up from the scene of the car bombing and driven him home. They’d pulled into the driveway and gone inside. Dorothy started a warm bath and helped him to bed soon there after. It couldn’t have been later than 11pm. She had stayed up, telling him she was too restless to lay down with him and had gone back down stairs. That’s all he remembered. A cloak of doubt washed over his skin, chilling him in utter confusion.

CHAPTER 28

Jim sat there as Cooper continued getting drilled by agent McCaffrey. He felt like a third wheel caught in between a couple’s argument. He remained quiet, trying to blend into the background. He stared at the image still frozen on the screen on the desk in front of him, ease-dropping on the onslaught of questions being beamed at Cooper.

McCaffrey stood across the room in front of Cooper, waiting for his response. The room was uncomfortably silent. Just as Cooper began to open his mouth to respond, agent McCaffrey lifted his hand to his earpiece, pushing it into his ear to hear the transmission. Cooper hesitated and held on to his response while McCaffrey seemed to be listening intently to the incoming message. It was a welcome break for Cooper. He was shocked at the last information shared with him. A few seconds past and McCaffrey excused himself for a minute and exited the room. Jim shifted in his chair, now feeling a brief calm in the storm. The second agent remained motionless, standing by the door looking over the three of them like a bouncer outside a popular nightspot. Agent McCaffrey stood just outside the glass room. He was on what appeared to be an interoffice phone. A minute later he slammed down the phone and re-entered the room.

“Mr. Watson, your free to go,” he said to Jim. “But you must leave your

equipment here with us. We’ll return it to you when we’re done with it.”

“But I need…”

“As I said, not until we are done with it!”

Jim stood up from his chair, a little frustrated that his equipment would not be leaving with him. It went against his grain. A cameraman never went anywhere without his camera. It was an unspoken rule in the media business. But the choice wasn’t his to make. When the F.B.I. says they’re going to keep his equipment, there’s nothing he could do. Escorted by the second agent, Jim was marched through the main office area, to an elevator and escorted to the front foyer of the building. Once through the security gates, the agent returned him his badge and drivers license and bid him good day. The agent turned around and marched back to the elevators, disappearing behind the closing sliding doors.

Jim stood there for a minute to re-gather himself. That was a pretty intense hour, he thought. Throwing his badge in his pocket and his driver’s license back in his wallet, he stammered outside onto the front sidewalk. Pulling his cell phone from his pocket, he scrolled though his saved numbers and chose Mark. The phone rang a few times and he picked up.

“Jim, is that you?” Mark answered.

“It’s me. You okay?”

“Fine. You? Where are you?”

“They brought us down to the Hoover Building to analyze the images.

Next thing I know, I’m stuck in the middle of an interrogation. Come get me and I’ll fill you in!”

“Be right there, meet me out front in about twenty minutes.”

“I’ll be here waiting.”

Jim flipped his phone closed. The sunlight and fresh breeze felt good against his face. He walked a short ways down the sidewalk and sat on a bench facing Pennsylvania Avenue. The street was jammed with afternoon traffic backed up by the occasional emergency vehicles still running up and down the Avenue working the White House scene a few blocks away. Water was puddle-up on the street sides and around the manhole covers from the previous days dam explosion. The grid was a mess of frustrated drivers and backed-up sewage. Horns were blowing from every angle like an ill-tuned pipe organ. Jim made himself comfortable knowing it would take Jim twice the time he’d originally said considering all the back-ups.

He reached into his vest pocket and pulled out his cigarettes, lighting one up and feeling his restlessness drop with every drag. The Hoover building loomed over him from behind like big brother watching over him. He thought of Cooper, still in that god-forsaken room battling his way out of the corner he’d been herded into. Jim almost felt sorry for him. He could tell Cooper was telling the truth and had simply been hooked into all of this by a bad series of events. He took one more deep drag from his cigarette as the out-of-tune orchestra of car horns blurted out around him.

CHAPTER 29

Cooper sat dead still in his chair, now sensing the loss of feeling in his butt and legs from the stiff plastic chair he’d been parked in so long. McCaffrey stood over him, still waiting for a reply to his last question. Cooper was dumb-founded. The walls of the room seemed to be closing in on him, creating intensifying pressure in the room – or maybe it was just his head. It was pounding. His heartbeat hammered through his brain – confusing his thoughts into a mess of illogical sentence fragments. It didn’t make sense. She had no relationship with Minchum. Was this a simple attempt of McCaffrey to throw him off-balance? Was he just making it all up, trying to panic Cooper into a submission? He couldn’t get his thoughts back in order.

A memory popped into his mind, reminding him of the struggles he and Dorothy had been through together and how they’d emerged still together. It was about 1a.m. on a Saturday night only six months ago, when he and Dorothy had been asleep in their bed when the phone rang. Cooper answered it only to find out their sixteen year-old daughter had been involved in a hit-and-run accident and had been heli-vac’d to Fort Belvoir Trauma Center. He didn’t believe the caller at first. It was a nurse from the center, having found their number on their daughter’s cell phone directory under home. The nurse described their daughter Victoria – her long brown hair, deep blue eyes and the scar on her right leg from a cycling accident that had happened when she was just six. Cooper sprang up out of bed, startling Dorothy from her quiet slumber. She immediately knew something wasn’t quite right. In a panic, she screamed at Cooper to tell her what had happened. Before he spoke, she knew Victoria was in trouble. She could sense it, as all mothers could. She broke down on the bedroom floor, sobbing uncontrollably. Cooper grabbed her up off the carpet and stared into her tear-soaked eyes. He calmed her down and reminded her that they needed to get down to the hospital and be by her side.

They rushed to the ER only to find Victoria dead on the table – her body covered under the white hospital sheets. The surgeon moved away from her bedside walked into the hallway. Dorothy was silent; a look of fear like no other cloaked her face. Her knees shivered in the anticipation of the words the doctor would deliver. The news chilled them both to the bone.

She screamed as she slumped to the floor, not wanting to believe it. Victoria was dead. She had been rushed into surgery, but the doctor couldn’t repair her collapsed lung and the hemorrhaging in her brain in time. The impact had been head-on and her head had slammed against the windshield, shattering her skull into pieces, resulting in internal bleeding that was beyond repair. She had taken her last breath as she was rolled into the ER. The surgery team had reacted, but it was too late.

They sat slumped on the floor outside her room for almost an hour, sobbing in each other’s arms, reflecting on Victoria’s years until then. They eventually scraped themselves off the floor and went back home. Within a week Victoria had been laid to rest and life was to start anew. Cooper found solace in returning to work, keeping his mind off their loss, while Dorothy slept most her days away, rarely getting up for anything. Over the last few months, Dorothy began to emerge, feeling stronger and willing to start over. Cooper urged her on and she found a drive through him. He built her self-confidence back up to where life was not only bearable, but do-able. She refocused her attention from Victoria to Cooper, finding him as a light in her darkness. She had her moments of rage and sorrow, but she was his and he was hers. They had each other and only each other and they both knew it.

This memory reassured his doubts and solidified his stance. He looked directly at McCaffrey, now sure it was either a lie or a misunderstanding.

“Agent McCaffrey, wasn’t Minchum’s apartment ransacked soon after his

supposed passing?” Cooper asked.

“Well, Yes. But.”

“Was Minchum’s computer taken?”

“Yes.”

“Well, who knows who has his laptop and who’s sending messages to my

account!”

“Why would she respond without letting you know?” McCaffrey

countered with a slight smirk on his face.

“I. I can’t answer that,” Cooper responded. Edwards watched Coopers

expression change. He began to feel Coopers frustration, his anxiousness and now felt pitty for him. He could tell Cooper wasn’t lying. At first he hadn’t been convince, but now it was clear.

Cooper hadn’t seen that coming. His nerves were beat, his sweat had run dry and his body ached of exhaustion. He was flat worn out. He didn’t know what was next. He sat, staring at the floor, knowing good-and-well McCaffrey was staring him down from across the room. He couldn’t take it anymore.

“I know this is a poor time, but I could use a restroom break.”

“Make it quick,” McCaffrey snipped. “We’re not done here yet! You

could be in a lot of trouble here Cooper.”

“What?” Cooper responded. “I’ve done nothing but try to help.”

“We’d appreciate it if you’d stop trying,” McCaffrey added smartly. “I

need an escort in here please,” he said into his earpiece. Within seconds, a new agent entered the room. He held the door open and gestured to Cooper to follow him. Cooper stood from his chair not realizing how stiff he’d become. He struggled to stand erect, slowly extending to ease the pressure on his lower back, which had suffered a herniated disk six years ago. He slowly moved to the door, past the glaring eyes of McCaffrey. He exited the room feeling a flush of fresh air hit his face as he stepped into the main office space. Cooper hadn’t realized how stuffy the room had become, thinking it was just his body reacting to the incessant questioning. The escorting agent crossed the room, still bustling with agents glued to their monitors while others ran back and forth from one irate boss to another. It was harshly evident that the day’s attack had blind-sided all those involved in National Security. There wouldn’t be a single agent who slept tonight.

They marched through the crowd to the other end of the room, turned left down a short, narrow hallway to the bathrooms at the end. The agent stopped.

“Down the hall, turn right at the fire exit sign.”

He parked himself to the side of the hall, only a few steps from the bathroom door. Cooper threw him a mild civil smile as he passed – one which was not reciprocated. He walked to the fire exit sign, hanging from the false ceiling in front of him and turned right into the bathroom. It was large, clean and well polished – smelling of lemon scrub. He walked to the back, towards the urinals on the left hand side. He shuffled into one of the stalls and took care of business. Leaning against the wall in front of him, he looked right to the back of the room and that’s when he saw it – a fire exit door. He leaned there, staring at the door. On it was a sign reading,

Fire exit only. Do not open or alarm will sound.

Cooper continued staring at it as thoughts began racing through his mind. He didn’t want to go back into that room with McCaffrey. He felt like a trapped dog. If he went back in there, they would only find a way to hang all this on him. The room began to spin around him. The lemon smell was overwhelming his already fatigued senses. He knew he was the only one to identify Minchum as the shooter – a man that was supposedly dead. He didn’t know if they believed him. He was scared. He’d never been through anything like this before. The intensity of it all was chilling his bones. Why did they seem to be searching for a connection between he and Minchum? What about Dorothy? What was this email all about? The blue BMW showing up everywhere, the attack on him, the dead G.U. student, the four dead cell members at the hotel – it all didn’t make sense. He grew tense in frustration, not knowing what to think. He began to panic. His heartbeat raced through his veins like boiling water, singeing him from the inside out. He had to get out of there. He had to make sense of that which didn’t. He had to find the missing pieces. Still staring at the door to his right, he wondered where it led.

CHAPTER 30

The agent stood tolerantly outside the door, watching the mass of staff run to-and-fro across the main office floor. Phones were still ringing frantically, interdepartmental faxes were coming in like they were hot off the press and large overhead monitors were running live-feeds of CNN, showing scenes from the White House. He stood wondering who would catch the blame for this. First it was the Embassies in Africa, then the World Trade Center bombings, then the hunt for Osama Ben Laden, 9/11 and the War in Iraq and now this – one intelligence failure after another. For years he’d worked hard to get through the ranks of the FBI, but now he stood in wonder. Any further advancements and he knew he’d get that much closer to the epicenter of the circle of blame; something he knew he didn’t want any part of any longer. He quickly realized he felt very good about being a run-of-the-mill field agent. He didn’t envy those with more on their shoulders – not at all.

Just then he heard it. A subtle alarm coming from within the bathroom. At first he didn’t recognize the sound, then it hit him. He looked up to the fire exit sign, which was now blinking a sharp white light from an indicator lamp beneath it.

“Shit!”

Flinging the door open with his shoulder, he ran into the bathroom like a charging bull, hoping his suspicions were wrong. At the back of the bathroom, the fire exit door alarm was sounding, also blinking a sharp white light on the push-in door handle. He ran up to the door and shoved it open. The stairwell led both up and down a narrow flight of concrete stairs, lined with metal hand railings and electrical tubing. A second alarm was now blaring inside the stairwell, much louder than the other. He knew what had happened, but he couldn’t believe it. He had a runner on his hands. The suspect had asked to use the restroom and had slid out into the stairwell in an attempt to escape.

“Shit, Shit, Shit!” he blurted, now in a frenzied panic.

He reached for the button to his earpiece and began hollering into the microphone.

“Security, we have a breach on level seven! Lock all exits and man the

front entrance. The suspect is about six foot, short dirty-brown hair wearing jeans and a tan zip-up coat last seen heading into the fire stairwell in sector three. Do not allow anyone out of this building… do you copy?!”

He was answered almost immediately, confirming the message through his

earpiece. He stood there for a minute, looking up and down the small opening in the center of the stair well, hoping to catch a glimpse of Cooper’s hand on the railing as he fled. The alarm was excruciatingly loud, making it hard for him to think clearly. He couldn’t decide whether to take a chance and pursue the suspect, or get back to McCaffrey and let him know what had happened. He made a split second judgment and ran back through the bathroom and onto the floor. McCaffrey stood with his back to him as he ran up behind him.

“Agent McCaffrey!” he blurted between hefty breaths.

MCaffrey spun around looking irritated at the interruption from

his thoughts.

“What is it?” he answered. “Where’s Cooper?”

“That’s just it! He’s running sir!”

“You’ve gotta be kidding me!”

“I wish I was sir.”

“You’ve alerted security?”

“Yes sir, we’re in lock-down now.”

“Well, don’t just stand there, go find him!” McCaffrey snapped.

CHAPTER 31

Cooper’s knees began to throb as he sat motionless on top of the toilet seat – his thighs buried in his chest. The door had swung open seconds ago as the agent ran in to see what had happened. He’d ran right past the stall to the fire exit door as Cooper had hoped, then after a few seconds, he ran straight back through the bathroom, back out onto the floor. Cooper waited for several minutes to see if anyone would return. The alarm masked any sounds of movement outside the bathroom door so he stayed put, giving it more time. His hands began to shake, not knowing what to do next. He hadn’t thought this through and was now dreading his predicament. He trembled in his squat, his knees feeling like they were about to burst. The alarm rang constant in his brain and throughout the bathroom, reminding him couldn’t turn back now.

Just as he began to shift out of position, the alarm went quiet. Suddenly the room was filled with a sort of piercing silence as his ears readjusted. He froze immediately, listening for any hints of movement outside the door. There was nothing but distant voices from the main office floor. Fearing the return of his escort, he shifted back into his squatted position atop the toilet and waited, keeping his feet out-of-sight. He wanted to be sure that his move had convinced them. The escort seemed to have bought it. The fire exit had acted as a great diversion, setting off the alarm and causing the agent to instinctively assume he’d fled down the stairwell. Cooper had approached the door, taken a deep breath and jammed his palms into its handle, then made a sprint to the center stall and slammed the door shut – locking it from the inside. It had only taken the agent a few seconds to hear the alarm and come barging in. The timing was close, but it worked. It was all well and good, but he hadn’t thought ahead to his next move. This was the Hoover building – the F.B.I. headquarters – and Cooper clearly knew that it had probably been designed as intelligence Fort Knox. Security had to be stellar in such a facility and the chances of him getting out unnoticed would be slim to none. He was no moron. He knew their first move would be to lock-down the facility, putting men at every exit to the outside. Then they’d begin searching the stairwell and any other points of access. Finally they’d begin a room-to-room search, not leaving a single stone unturned.

Cooper sat there, giving himself time to come up with a plan, but it was difficult. He had no obvious next move. He simply had to use his brain to come up with a plan. Remaining silent on his perch he muscled in some deep breaths, trying to calm his nerves and allow himself to think. What would they do to him if they caught him inside the building? Surely they’d hang him for the attack. His attempt at escaping would only make him look that much more guilty. He couldn’t let that happen. He had to get to Dorothy before they did. He had to figure out what was going on. Then it struck him.

He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out his cell phone. Flipping it open, he scrolled through his stored number and chose home. The phone rang four times, then Dorothy’s voice came on.

“You’ve reached the Alexander’s residence, please leave a message and

we’ll get back to you as soon as possible.”

Cooper slammed the phone shut in frustration. Cooper had to talk to her –

to warn her.

This was his only chance. He wouldn’t have enough time to get to her before they did. He flipped the phone back open and gave it another shot. The phone rang again four times and the recording kicked-in. This time he didn’t hang up. When her message finished he spoke.

“Dorothy, it’s Cooper,” he said in a whisper. “If there’s ever a time I need

your complete trust, it’s right now. Listen closely to me. Gather some things and get out of the house now. I’ll explain later. Just do it, please! If you get this soon, text me back on my cell – don’t call! – just text me back to let me know you’re out. I’ll need you to pick me up soon, so please… text me when you get this message!”

He hit the End button on his phone and selected Menu from the screen. He scrolled through the options until he came to Silent Mode and selected it. He didn’t want his phone to ring out his location, just vibrate. Instead of putting it back in his coat, he reached around his side and crammed it in his taught pant pocket. He knew he wouldn’t feel it vibrate in his coat and his front pant pocket would be the best place to feel it if she responded. Settling back into his perched position he tried to gather his thoughts. He needed a way out of there. He had to move or they’d be back soon. He began to shift out of position again but suddenly heard someone push open the bathroom door and he froze. His heart sunk and his face went flush. He was done.

CHAPTER 31

He sat deadly still, hoping the newcomer was unaware of his presence. He listened intently to the sounds reverberating off the tiled walls, hearing footsteps approaching his stall as began to quiver. From under the locked stall door, Cooper could see the tips of a pair of Italian leather shoes, facing directly towards his door. He was trapped. There was nothing he could do but hope they’d turn around and walk away, never aware of his presence. Then, a voice broke the eerie silence.

“Cooper. Come on out.” The voice said softly.

His jaw dropped and his heart skipped a beat. He didn’t respond.

“Cooper, open the door. It’s Detective Edwards. We’ve got to hurry

before they come back.”

Cooper stayed put, letting the words process in his head. It sounded like Edwards had just offered his help. Could this be? But why? Even if it was a trick, there was nothing he could do but respond.

“I’m sorry. I panicked. I…”

“Cooper. It’s okay. But we’ve gotta hurry. We need to get you out of

this building and we need to do it now. We don’t have much time.”

Cooper was puzzled. He climbed down from the toilet and slid the lock back on the stall door to see Edwards standing before him.

“How did you know I was in here?” Cooper asked, looking perplexed.

“I figured if you had gone out the fire exit, they’d find you somewhere

downstairs, but if you hadn’t, then you’d still be in here. That was quite a trick you pulled.”

“I didn’t know what to do. I just figured I’d have a better chance by

distracting them than by out-running them,” Cooper responded.

“Good thinking. Now… we’ve gotta get you out of here, quick!”

“How?”

“Well, they’ll be looking for you, so we have to change who you are.”

“What?”

“There’s a linen closet right next door. Let’s see what we can find.

Follow me.”

With that Edwards turned and headed back toward the door, motioning for

Cooper to follow. Edwards halted at the door, signaling Cooper to stay put as he pushed the door open slightly. He looked back toward the office floor where it looked like pandemonium. People were scurrying everywhere, now in a panic about an escaped suspect in the building. McCaffrey still stood about thirty yards away with his back to them, scolding three agents in black, undoubtedly threatening their jobs if they didn’t find Cooper. Edwards pushed through the door, motioning to Cooper to follow. They slowly moved just beyond the doorframe, using the open door as a visual shield from the main floor. Edwards reached out to a second door along the wall. On it read Janitor. He pulled the door open and they slid inside, pulling the door closed behind them.

The room was pitch black and smelled like a mixture of wet mops and cleaning solutions. Cooper sneezed from the fumes, but held in the brunt of the release in an effort to remain silent. Edwards fondled around on the walls, trying to find a light switch but was having trouble. He tripped over something on the floor, but caught himself by grabbing onto Coopers coat sleeve.

“You alright?” Cooper asked.

“Fine, just can’t find the light. Try on your side,” he whispered back.

` Cooper reached out, his eyes fully dilating, trying to pick up any contours of the room. His palm connected with a wall to his left and he began sliding his hand across its surface. After a couple of tries, he found a switch and flipped it on. The lights flickered at first, then beamed white fluorescent light from above, causing them both to squint until their eyes re-adjusted. It was your typical janitors closet – small and crowded with carts, mops, buckets, linens and garbage cans. There was a stack of three shelves on the right, just in front of Edwards, filled with what looked to be towels and smocks. Edwards let his eye scan the room for ideas on a disguise for Cooper and then he began gathering things off the shelves and the floor. Within minutes, Cooper looked like a member of the Hoover Building cleaning crew. He now wore a dark blue jump suit, a matching cap on his head and rubber boots under his pant cuffs. He felt ridiculous, but this just might work. Edwards pulled one of the cleaning carts in front of Cooper and began to fill it with cleaning supplies and mops, adding to the authenticity of the disguise.

“There. This should do it.”

“You sure this is going to work?”

“Not really, but it’s the best we’ve got.”

Cooper wasn’t convinced by the get-up. He thought for sure they’d still see him coming a mile-away.

“What now?” Cooper asked.

“I’m going to walk out into the hall and make sure we’re clear. When I tell you, I want you to come out pushing the cart in front of you. Then just follow me. I think I saw a service elevator at the end of the hallway.”

Cooper nodded apprehensively. His knees were shaking again and he began sweating profusely under the layers of clothes he now had on.

“You ready?” Edwards asked.

“As best I can be.”

Edwards pushed open the door in front of them as he reached over and turned off the light in the room. He leaned out beyond the door and looked around for any oncoming personnel. The hall was clear. Edwards motioned for Cooper to follow him out into the corridor. Cooper kept his head down as he moved past the door, hoping if he didn’t look up, than he’d go unnoticed. They moved slowly down the hall to the elevator doors in font of them as the door behind them clicked shut.

Obvious sounds of dismay and panic lofted up behind them from the main office floor. It didn’t sound good. Cooper stopped in front of the doors and pushed the call button for the elevator while Edwards looked back towards the floor. As he did, he could see McCaffrey turn around, having finished his hollering and scan the room in front of him. He moved from left to right until his eyes found those of Edwards. By that time, Edwards had moved in front of Cooper with his back to the elevator door. McCaffrey looked at Edwards with a puzzled look on his face.

“Whatever you do, don’t turn around. McCaffrey’s watching. It’s okay,

just follow my lead,” Edwards whispered under his breath to Cooper.

Cooper stiffened–up in nervous trepidation. He remained very still while Edwards began looking through the cleaning cart, lifting the towels from inside and dropping them back in. McCaffrey watched closely from afar, wondering what Edwards was doing. Edwards stepped back from Cooper and motioned Cooper on as the elevator doors opened. Cooper advanced forward into the elevator. Edwards watched as McCaffrey expression change from one of curiosity to one of acceptance, thinking Edwards was just been cautious – inspecting the janitors cart before letting him leave the area and turned back around. Just as he did, Edwards jumped between the doors of the elevator as they closed behind him, colliding with Cooper inside.

CHAPTER 32

Outside, the sun was just beginning to set behind the roofs of the building lining Pennsylvania Avenue. It was late afternoon and the sun floated low in the amber horizon. Jim sat restlessly in the shade as a chill came over him. Fall was early this year and temperatures in the shade weren’t much over sixty degrees. He’d called Mark almost an hour ago and there was still no sign of him. Traffic must have been worse than he thought. He pulled out one more cigarette from his pocket and lit-up, watching as a plethora of business suits walked by in mid-discussion on their cell phones about today’s events at the White House, throwing mixed speculations on what had really happened across the wireless airways to anonymous listeners on the other end.

He turned around and stared at the edifice behind him. Jim had been born and raised in and around the Washington, D.C. area and had taken an interest in the history of many of its structures. The Hoover building was one of them. It had opened its door in 1974 as the new centralized building for the F.B.I. Until then, the F.B.I. had been housed in nine separate locations around the city. It wasn’t until World War II that a commission had been created to look into centralizing many of the armed forces and intelligence agencies into their own single-purpose buildings. It’s original design costs were forecasted at upwards of sixty million dollars, but upon completion of the building in 1973, costs had soared to a whopping hundred and six million. Jim sat wondering how much of his federal income taxes were still being used to pay off such a debt. The building was named after J. Edgar Hoover, the Director of the F.B.I at the time, only two days after his death in 1972. Jim was too young to remember Hoover, but he’d heard the stories of cross-dressing from his peers around him. Apparently Hoover had a playful side. Jim chuckled.

He zipped up his coat and pulled one more drag from his cigarette as Mark swerved into the parking lane in front of him. Jim jumped up from the bench and grabbed his stuff.

“It’s about time!”

“I know, I know. Traffic is backed-up everywhere downtown. They’ve

got roads blocked off all over the place. It’s unbelievable!” Mark answered, sounding a little frustrated. Jim climbed in the passenger door and slammed it shut.

“You okay?”

“Fine.”

“So what happened in there?” Marked was dying to know.

“They took us up into their digital studio and had me hook up the footage

of the attack into their system. You should have seen the stuff they had! It was all state-of-the-art. It was amazing!”

“Yeah, so…?”

“They had me upload the image of the shooter to their screen and we

zoomed in on the guys face. The other guy, I think his name was Cooper, recognized the guy in the frame. Apparently, the shooter was a man named Minchum, or rather Demitri something. He’s an author that Cooper had been representing. Anyways, it sounds like his wife had been killed by US troops somewhere in Israel and he’s now working for the P.L.O.”

Mark stared at Jim, shaking his head. It was clear to Mark why Jim was a

cameraman, not a reporter. His ability to recollect details of a conversation were marginal at best.

“Where’s the camera?” Mark asked.

“They said they were going to keep it for a while. They wouldn’t let me take it.”

“Great! Now we have nothing to give John. He’s gonna flip-out!”

“Nothing I could do.”

“When did they say they’d have the camera back to us? We’re the only

one’s with footage of the shooter. We need to get that on the air.”

“In the next day or two I guess.”

“Let’s hope you remember more than what you just told me when we get

to the station. We can’t show up empty handed. We’ll have to dig deeper into this author Minchum, or Demitri, … or whatever his name is. There’s gotta be stuff we can dig up.”

Mark threw the van into drive and he jerked away from the curb, only to

meet right back up with the congestion ahead.

CHAPTER 33

Edwards let out a sigh of relief as the doors closed behind him. That was close. He knew it wouldn’t be long before McCaffrey and the others would figure out what was going on. They had to get out of there fast. Cooper glanced over at Edwards with a look of dread.

“What now?”

Edwards leaned forward and pushed the button below the L, marked B, knowing it would take him to the basement level. They had a better chance of getting out there than they did through the front doors on the Lower level – it would probably be swarming with agents trying to find Cooper.

“Let’s see what we’ve got when we get to the basement. There should be

a way out from there.”

“Are you sure?” Cooper sounded genuinely worried now.

“No, but we’ll see. Just relax, we’ll find something,” Edwards responded

in an effort to ease Coopers fear. They passed the lower level and slowed to a stop at the basement. The elevator let out a subtle tone, then opened the doors into a sizeable square foyer leading to two partially opened steel doors in what appeared to be a large kitchen bustling with sous-chefs, stoves and the occasional steam. To their left and right were long hallways painted in monochromatic faded gray, leading in either direction, lined with a stream of electrical tubing, ventilation ducts and transformers. The air was stale, smelling of a mix between electrical burning and steamed vegetables. Edwards looked both ways for any foot traffic before venturing out into the foyer, signaling for Cooper to follow. Sneaking past the kitchen doors, they turned left and headed down the hallway. The corridors were eerily devoid of people, only adding to Coopers anxiousness.

Just then Coopers cell phone began vibrating in his pocket. It startled him at first until he realized where the sensation was coming from. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the phone. He quickly looked at the screen to see it was Dorothy returning his text. It read,

Got Msg. Out of house. Where r u.

Cooper quickly typed back his response;

In a mess. Get car & drv downtwn. Will call soon.

He flipped the phone shut and shoved it back into his pocket. They passed several entryways until they came upon a set of large metallic swing doors propped open with sandbags. Edwards looked at Cooper with a curious expression on his face. Cooper returned the look by shrugging his shoulders. Cooper stayed put while Edwards advanced to the doors and looked down the short hallway they lead to. Bingo! Edwards could see daylight being cast on the far wall as he rounded the corner. A truck was backed up to a loading dock about twenty yards down the hall. Two men were unloading the truck; one inside, shifting freight to the back of the truck and the other off-loading the boxes and setting them to the side. On either side of the truck was just enough room to squeeze through onto a ramp that fed onto one of the buildings encircling boulevards. At last, a way out. Edwards stepped back to Cooper.

“I think we have a way out of here.”

“Really!” Cooper sounded enormously relieved.

“We’ve got an open loading dock just beyond these doors. There are two

men unloading a truck. I’m going to have to distract them somehow. You wait here.”

Cooper nodded hesitantly as he watched Edwards turn the corner.

Edwards slid down the right hand wall to the open doors and stopped, ducking behind one of them. He stood motionless for several minutes watching the two men unload the freight, trying to get some insight into his approach. The man in the truck appeared to be the driver, dressed in jeans and a polo shirt. The other looked to be part of the building’s staff, dressed in dark pants and a matching blazer. As the man bent over to pick up one of the boxes, Edwards saw it. Under his coat, in a holster on his belt. A gun. The man was armed. This made things a little more difficult. He continued watching as the two men chatted while unloading, not able to make out their words. Edwards waited for the right moment. Just as the man inside the tail of the truck walked back into the trailer to retrieve another box, Edwards made his move. He ran from the open doors to a sheltered position within ten feet of the two men and hunched down behind one of the stacks of boxes. He had a plan. The driver came back into view from the dark depths of the trailer with another large box and handed it down to the armed man. He turned and headed right for Edward’s position. Setting the box down just above Edward’s head, he never saw it coming. As soon as he pivoted around to head back to the truck, Edwards pounced. In a split second, he’d lunged at the man, thrown him to the floor and pulled his weapon from his waist, now pointing it directly at his head from only inches away.

“Don’t make a sound!” Edwards blurted.

The man didn’t move, but was breathing heavily as the adrenaline rushed through his veins. Edwards had his arm twisted up behind his back and was kneeling all his weight directly on his spine. As he shifted more weight onto his knee, the driver emerged from the trailer and saw Edwards on top of his helper. He dropped the box and stepped back.

“Freeze!” Edwards yelled out to him. “Don’t move an inch or your buddy gets it!” The man froze immediately with a look of shock glazing over his face.

“Do you have packing tape in there somewhere?” Edwards demanded.

“Yes sir,” the man answered. He was young, about twenty-five and visibly scared.

“Get it! Now!” The driver reached down and picked up the tape roller off the bed of the truck, holding it high above his head, waiting for Edwards next command.

“Stay right where you are and throw it down to me.”

The driver did just as he was told, returning his hands out to his sides, about shoulder height up.

“Cooper!” Edwards yelled down the hall to him. “Get over here!”

Cooper heard Edwards and rounded the corner to see him kneeling on one of the men while the other stood, hands high, on the end of the truck bed. What the hell had Edwards done? Cooper ran over to his side.

“Take the tape roller,” Edwards blurted between grunts.

“For what?”

Edwards looked back down to the man he was kneeling on. He grabbed his arm tighter and wrenched the man up to his feet as he howled out of pain.

“Give me your other hand!” Edwards shouted, trying to maintain an edgy

dominance with his voice. The man wrapped his left hand around behind his back.

“Wrap the tape around his wrists. Do it several times,” Edwards told

Cooper. “And you, don’t move!” he yelled at the driver. Cooper began wrapping the tape around the man’s wrists, trying to mimic Edwards’s confidence, but finding it difficult while his hands shook uncontrollably.

“Driver, step down off the trailer,” Edwards ordered again. The young man moved to the edge of the trailer and hopped down onto the dock, his hands still high in the air. He too was shaking. Within seconds Edwards had the driver taped up, all the while keeping them both at gunpoint. Neither fought back, both doing exactly as they were told.

“Both of you, over here!” Edwards motioned to a small dock office just to the right side of the receiving door. They walked nervously into the room, not knowing their fate.

“Sit,” Edwards told them, signaling to the two chairs in front of a desk at the far side of the room. They walked over to them and sat down.

It only took a few minutes to wrap both their ankles and tape their hands to the backs of the chairs. Edwards wasn’t looking for perfection, but needed them secure enough to allow time to get out and far enough away before they could free themselves and alert someone of their where-a bouts. Once they were secured, both Cooper and Edwards leaned back against the far wall and took a few deep breaths. The adrenaline rush had overwhelmed them and they needed a few seconds of recovery.

Just as Edwards let his guard down, a side door to the office flung open.

“FREEZE!”

Out came another man dressed in the same dark pants and blazer with his weapon drawn. The man looked frightened and his hand shook violently under the weapons weight. The barrel bounced from Edwards to Cooper as he tried to settle on a target. Edwards calmly stood up straight from the wall while Cooper cowered in an instinctive reflex and then straightened up in embarrassment.

The man stood there for a minute, scanning the room, trying to figure out what was going on – the barrel of his gun still dancing back and forth between the two of them. He looked down to the two men taped to the chairs by his side and Edwards jumped. Before he knew what hit him, Edwards had reached out and grabbed the barrel of his gun, twisting it down and away. The gun went off, slamming a round into the concrete floor by Edward’s foot. The man tried to grab the gun with his other hand but it was too late, it was gone. He was now staring down the barrel of his own weapon, only inches from his forehead, able to see the swirling striations of the inner barrel. Edwards learned the move in his police training but had never used it before.

Cooper stood beside Edwards, feeling a little sub-standard, immensely impressed at his poise and self-control. He didn’t like guns, but Edwards had handled the situation perfectly, stealing his gun right out of his hand, without even breaking a sweat. He was amazed. He’d only ever seen moves like that in the movies.

“Sit down!” Edwards barked. “Cooper, tape him up like the others.”

Cooper did just that. Once all three men were tightly secured in their chairs, Edwards told Cooper to ditch the janitor’s suit. Cooper gladly obliged.

Minutes later, Cooper and Edwards were squeezing past the side of the trailer and running up the ramp to the outside. Cooper pulled out his phone and called Dorothy after getting a few blocks north of the building.

“Dorothy?”

“Babe, are you alright?”

“Fine. Can’t talk now. Just meet us at the west side of the Verizon

Center in about ten minutes.”

“Okay. I’m only a few blocks east of there. I’ll be right there.”

Dorothy pulled up curbside a few minutes later and they jumped in the back of her Camry. Navigating their way through D.C. traffic, they crossed the 14^th Street bridge and headed into Arlington. Now they were fugitives from the Federal Government and had nowhere to go. They couldn’t go back home, they couldn’t even go the Edwards apartment. Surely those would be the first places they would come looking for them. Their destination was unknown.

CHAPTER 33

McCaffrey tottered across the office floor, shaking his head as it hung low between his shoulders. He pushed open his office door and slowly walked around behind his desk, slumping into his high-back black leather chair. He wheeled it in closer to the desk and slammed his elbows into the hard oak desktop, plopping his head into his hands. He couldn’t believe what was happening. He was stunned, unable to muster up any nerve to call his boss and let him know of the news. His boss had never favored him and this would be the nail that would seal his coffin. How would he explain that the only suspect and lead in the morning’s attack on the White House had slipped between his fingers and escaped from the F.B.I. headquarters under his very nose?

They’d spent all night searching every room, closet and corner of the building looking for Cooper, but came up empty handed. Then, around midnight, on their last effort to search the bowels of the structure, an agent had ventured down into the basement level loading dock and discovered a delivery truck, with it’s trailer still open and no one around. Knowing that all access to the outside were to be manned twenty-four-seven he grew puzzled. He’d taken a closer look and found three men, two rookie agents and the truck driver tied up like rodeo cattle to chairs with tape in the dock office. They were unharmed but weary. Once unraveled, they told the story of how two men had attacked them, tied them up and escaped through the dock door. The discovering agent passed the message up to the seventh floor to the SAIC’s office where McCaffrey learned of the escape.

McCaffrey had spent almost twenty-five years with the Bureau, starting as a “brick agent”, moving to a field agent for about ten years, then up to the S.A.I.C. level after having a very reputable career. His case record was impeccable and his drive was unmatched in the agency. But his track record took a back seat to his reputation as a self-righteous prick of sorts. As a field agent, he’d always struggled to see eye-to-eye with his partners and counterparts, constantly driving to seek new assignments. He was a man who went straight to the point and didn’t feel the need to sugarcoat anything. His motto was; whatever it takes. This had caught up with him recently with his new Chief of Department and their relationship became rocky at best.

He sat there, slumped over his desk, wondering how this could have happened. This would be the embarrassment of all embarrassments and he’d become the joke of the F.B.I. Only a few hours ago, he’d ordered several of his men to stake-out both Coopers and Detective Edwards homes, hoping to come up lucky, but they never showed. It was just after 6 a.m. and the morning sun began to crest over the Virginia horizon through the window behind him, laying a mild warmth on the back of his shoulders. His boss would return from Europe this morning on a red-eye from Seattle and surely would head straight for his office, needing to be briefed on the situation since he left three days ago. He’d thought to call him soon after their discovery, but knew the outcome and postponed it as long as he could. It wouldn’t be long now.

CHAPTER 34

The morning sun radiated an iridescent glow across the front window curtains of their hotel room, casting an orange hue across their latent bodies. Cooper and Dorothy lay fast asleep atop the covers on one bed, while Edwards sat slumped in a lounger on the other side of the room. Some scattered dishes lay piled across a small table to the side. They’d driven about twenty miles south on I-95 to Accoquan, pulling off the highway around eight o’clock to find a small hotel to take shelter in for the night. They’d paid in cash, knowing their credit card activities might well be tracked. They’d ordered burgers from the room service menu only to discover they tasted more like overcooked cardboard than red meat. They’d stayed up for hours after, filling Dorothy in on what had happened over the course of the prior day.

She was shocked, amazed and bewildered. Cooper was now a Federal fugitive and she’d now become an accessory to his and Edward’s escape. Although frightened, she knew that had been their only choice. The Feds wanted to pin this on Cooper, even her and it simply couldn’t end that way. Cooper had asked Edwards why he’d taken such a risk and helped him escape and Edwards responded by telling him that it was evident that he had been telling the truth all along and it was in his best interest – the countries best interest – to get him out of there and find Minchum. They’d continued speculating on how it had all happened, right into the early morning hours and had simply fallen asleep right where they lay.

Cooper awoke to the sound of a siren outside. Startling him, he jumped up out of bed and ran to the window. The sun was bright, forcing him to squint after rubbing his eyes. Pulling the curtain back slightly, he watched as an ambulance passed by the hotel outside and disappeared off in the distance. Dorothy had awakened as he’d pounced out of the bed. She laid there, head on a pillow, her legs crossed at her calves, looking peaceful. He’d missed her and the sight of her was warming. He smiled and she returned a sleepy grin. Edwards was now shifting in his chair, allowing his brain to piece together where he was. He sat up and rubbed his eyes like a toddler rising from its crib, stretching out his arms and yawning uncontrollably.

“What time is it?” Edwards asked between yawns.

“About eight thirty,” Cooper replied.

In the previous nights conjecture, Cooper had mentioned how he needed to get back to his town home and retrieve his laptop. Without that, they had nothing to work with, nothing to act on. He knew that on it was Minchums script, the emails, the addresses they needed. Edwards had agreed but they’d never got around to figuring out how to get it.

“We need to get that laptop,” Cooper said again as he stretched.

“Slow down Cooper, we’ll need to think it through. They’ll probably have

the place under surveillance.”

“So what do we do?”

“I could get it,” Dorothy interjected.

“How? They might be looking for you as well. If you show up at the

house, they’re likely follow you back to us.”

“Not if I didn’t actually need to enter the house.”

A brief silence ensued.

“I don’t follow,” Edwards replied.

“Cooper and I have our laptops networked for when he goes out of town.

We do video conferencing instead of phone calls. If we can access each others computers like that, I can also access them from another terminal.”

“Oh my god! You’re right!” Cooper blurted.

“Nice,” Edwards added.

“Let’s get cleaned up and get out of here. This hotel gives me the creeps.”

Dorothy remarked, feeling the heebie-jeebies coming on after looking back down at the sheets she’d just slept on, looking as if they hadn’t been washed in a while.

The three of them took turns using the washroom, Dorothy taking the first shift, dousing her face with a splash of cold water. Cooper and Edwards sat in front of the television screen, flipping from one channel to another. Scenes of the attack were on every major and local news network on which former national security advisors, former C.I.A., N.S.A. and F.B.I. directors, Senators, Congressmen and so-called anti-terrorism experts launched their assault on the current heads of departments and how such a security failure could have happened in the post-9/11 era. Each of them deployed their barrage of speculative interjections, raising their index fingers and pointing them in a slew of different directions. They cogitated repeatedly over which extremist group or fundamental organization would claim responsibility for the unprecedented strike against the leader of the free world and the iconographic White House, symbolizing the power the democracy. The images invoked the same senses of sadness and anger that had stirred the hearts of the American public on September 11^th, but this time the uproar was that much more intense. Both the media and the testimonial experts seemed fueled by the fact that those involved in Federal National Security and Intelligence agencies had allowed a second major attack on U.S. soil. Cooper and Edwards sat on adjacent bedsides watching the same screen, still mesmerized by the images in front of them. They had landed on CNN and stayed with it for a few minutes until it broke for commercials.

Cooper and Edwards snapped back to reality as the channel moved from their coverage to the latest investment banking advertisement. Cooper heard some movement from behind in the washroom and he turned to see Dorothy open the door and walk out back into the room. Her face was refreshing and warm – her figure accentuated by her form fitting jeans and a low-cut blouse. Others may not have seen her beauty, but at certain moments – like now – her figure, would invoke a feeling within that only he knew. Although she’d struggled in the past six months, she was his angel, his solicitous caretaker – his soul mate. Her hair was pulled up in a ponytail and her face seemed to glow in the morning light from the rising sun outside the window of their room. He took a deep breath, staring at her as she crossed in front of him. She glanced back at him with a curious grin, sensing he was enjoying her aesthetic presence. Her blood warmed from the attention as she sat down next to him on the bedside. They leaned in to each other and kissed softly on the lips, not pulling away, but keeping their nose tips close as they stared into each other’s eyes.

Edwards couldn’t take it. Their affection was making him a little uncomfortable and he knew they needed to get moving. Staying anywhere too long could spell trouble for them.

“Alright you two – break it up! We’ve gotta get going.”

Cooper and Dorothy pulled back, a little embarrassed over their brief moment.

“Where are we gonna find a computer we can access?” Dorothy asked.

“I have one at the office we could use,” Cooper replied, thinking of the many laptops available to him and the rest of the Anderson Publishing staff.

“That would probably be best. I have access to some too, but they’re at

the station. Chances are, the department has been contacted about our disappearance and they’ll be watching for us to make a move,” Edwards remarked.

“What about my office, will they be looking there?”

“I don’t know, they may not have dug that deep yet. We may have a

chance if we got over there quickly.”

“Well, let’s get going,” Dorothy blurted.

CHAPTER 34

They gathered their belongings and headed back to Dorothy’s car, not bothering to check out of their room at the front desk. The morning air was sharp, causing them to stop and zip up their coats, shoving their hands into their pockets. Dorothy’s car was parked close to the room and Cooper jumped into the drivers seat and unlocked the doors for the others. They jumped in, tensing their muscles as they plopped into the cold interior seats, waiting for Cooper to start the engine and get the heater going. They drove off.

They arrived outside Coopers office on Route 7 – in Vienna – just down the road from Tyson’s Corner mall. It stood about ten stories tall and was cloaked in a dark tinted glass, giving it a contemporary corporate look. They parked just east of the buildings front entrance, staying out of the way of the front door traffic.

“Will I be alright going in there?” Cooper asked Edwards.

“You’re not going in.”

“What? Why?”

“I don’t need you getting caught-up with your staff. The more interaction

we have with co-workers or friends, the more trouble will follow us around.”

“Well, how are we going to get the computer?”

“I have an idea,” Edwards replied. Edwards opened his door and stepped

out onto the sidewalk. He turned and bent down inside the door.

“I’ll be back in a few minutes. Pull forward away from the door and wait there. Stay out of sight.”

With that he closed the door and headed to the front doors of the office building. Within seconds he was inside. Cooper and Dorothy sat in the car, wondering what he was up to. About ten minutes passed as they watched people moving in and out of the building, some of them looked vaguely familiar to Cooper, but were not individuals he’d worked with, but probably ran into on one of the other floors. It was still early morning and many of them appeared to be just arriving for work – still sipping away at their non-fat caramel latte’s and herbal teas from the nearest over-priced bean pusher.

Just then, a large silver Mercedes pulled by them on the front drive and turned left just behind them into the reserved parking, only about twenty yards away. Cooper recognized the car immediately. It was Morton. He knew it was him because of the car. Morton has recently bought it and had happily displayed it for all to see at a company diner about three weeks ago. Cooper had no idea that the book business could be so lucrative to some. It was a brand new S-Class and from what Cooper knew of those cars, they couldn’t be bought new for anything less than about seventy thousand. Cooper teasingly called it a Midwest mortgage on wheels. He watched as the car rounded a median and pulled in to a parking spot facing directly at Dorothy’s car. Cooper knew that he couldn’t be seen at the building and hunkered down in the front seat just to where his eyes met the bottom of the bottom lip of the driver’s side window. Morton climbed out of the car and circled round to the trunk, opening it and retrieving his briefcase. He slammed it shut and threw the shoulder strap over his right arm and began walking towards Cooper’s position. He shrunk down again, not knowing how to avoid being seen. Morton approached from the passenger side, not paying attention to anything but his Blackberry, scrolling through his appointments for the day ahead. His hair was dark and slicked back over an evident thinning spot and his shoulders were broad with a little help from the pads under his knee-length twill coat. He approached within ten yards of Dorothy’s car and stopped, pulling the sunglasses from the bridge of his nose and tucked them away into his leather satchel-style bag, then resumed his march forward. He walked towards the curb, passing right across the front of Dorothy’s car where Cooper was now feeling like a sardine in a tin can – scrunched down to the steering wheel, hiding his face from the distracted passer-by. Morton was completely immersed in his wireless trinket, not paying any attention to his surroundings. Cooper stayed curled up in the foot-well of the car, praying Morton didn’t look up from his blackberry and recognize him through the windshield. He stepped up onto the sidewalk, but tripped on the curb a little. He looked up as if to see if anyone had witnessed his stumble and saw Dorothy in the back passenger seat. She stared right back at him. He smiled at her enticingly, nodded, then mouthed the word Mam’. She smiled back in a courteous manner as he turned in the direction of the front doors. After a few more anxious seconds he was gone, off to the ninth-floor and into his elaborately furnished office.

Cooper waited briefly, giving Morton plenty of time to disappear into the building. Then he untangled himself and sat straight up in the seat as Dorothy watched from the back. She knew Morton, but he didn’t know her. She’d sat still in the back seat as he passed, watching him closely, knowing she’d have to distract him if he began looking into the vehicle. She never had to.

“That was close,” Cooper mumbled.

“He’s gone. We’re fine,” she replied. Five minutes passed until Edwards came out the front doors. He walked heedlessly down the sidewalk to the car and got in the passenger side, closing the door and laying a black laptop case onto his lap, allowing a mild grin to creep across his face.

“You got one!?” Cooper said, sounding both excited and perplexed.

“Simple.”

“How’d you do it?”

“You’d be surprised what a badge can get you these days.”

Cooper laughed a little and looked back to Dorothy. She giggled too.

“What did you say to them?”

“Simple. I told them the truth. I said you were downtown when it all

happened and you were now at the station and needed your laptop to answer some questions. They bought it immediately.”

“Oh… okay then.” Cooper turned the key and the measly four-banger came to life, sounding like a lawnmower bogging down in tall weeds. Cooper hated her car. It was cheap, tinny and completely lackluster compared to his Beemer. They pulled away from the building and merged back onto Route Seven’s stop-and-go traffic.

CHAPTER 35

As Cooper weaved in and out of the congestion, Edwards flipped open the laptop and powered it up. It took just a few seconds for the Duo Core Processor in Cooper’s Macbook to boot up the desktop. Edwards was impressed. His laptop took days to boot up and constantly jammed up after only minutes of use. He’d heard about the new Macs but had never watched one at work. They were impressive, but still odd to him in their gleaming white shell.

“Okay, what am I looking for?” he asked.

“We need to find a wireless connection before we can access our home account.”

“Where?”

“We need to find a coffee house or book store, they often have free hotspots we can use.”

“There’s a coffee shop inside the bookstore about two blocks ahead, just

before you get to the beltway. Will that work for you?” Dorothy mentioned.

“Fine.”

They plotted their course through the mid-morning traffic, merging off the main drag onto a service road leading right to the parking garage for the bookstore. They parked on the lower level, jumped out in haste and found a seat just inside the door next to the large front window. Flipping open the laptop, they watched in anticipation for what they hoped would be a simple key to this arcane puzzle, a rudimentary explanation of Minchums deceptive intentions. They needed something. Cooper pulled the laptop in front of him and began typing like mad on the keyboard. It didn’t take him long to sign-on to their home network and pull up his email account. Double-clicking on the last email from Minchum – the one on which he’d attached a copy of his script – Cooper sat there for several minutes re-reading the final pages of the script, hoping to find a clue – a hint – a granule of clarity amongst all the confounding events of the past few days. Edwards and Dorothy stood in line just behind him, swooned by the intoxicating smells of freshly brewed roasted coffee and a hint of cinnamon lofting in the air.

Cooper had passed on the java temptation, anxious to do some digging on the laptop. He finished the last paragraph, scanned back up and read it again, then again. Something didn’t work. His ending was odd, ill fitted, not like any of his other novels. It just didn’t seem finished, almost abrupt in its conclusion. It just didn’t fit Minchums style. It almost read as if there were more, as if he hadn’t completely finished the story. He couldn’t figure it out. It just wasn’t like Minchum to leave a story unfinished. He lifted his eyes from the screen as Edwards and Dorothy sat down next to him at the table, looking to him for a sign of discovery. It wasn’t there. In fact, his face denoted a sense of bewilderment.

“What’s up Cooper?” Edwards asked.

“I’m not sure. Something doesn’t add up. The script ends oddly. He

describes the RPG attack on the White House and then ventures into a manhunt for the shooter and his terrorist network. Even his script seems to implicate what I originally thought was an innocent main character, but after that, it ends suddenly.”

“So, what does that mean?” Dorothy asked in a puzzled voice.

“I’m not really sure.”

He stared at the screen, trying to figure it out. Something was off, but what? He closed the email containing the script and looked at the date and time it was sent – Monday, October 12^th at 3pm. His eyes scanned through the slew of other emails in their mailbox and then he saw it – another email from Minchums email address.

“Wait a minute!”

“What is it?” Edwards asked. Cooper didn’t answer.

This one was dated today, the 14^th at 4am. It had an attachment denoted by the paperclip symbol to its left side. He swiftly moved his mouse down the list to the email and double clicked on it. The email opened to reveal some text signed at the bottom by Minchum himself. There was an attachment to the email – a Word file similar to the first email containing his manuscript. He sat at attention as he read the email addressed to him. There was no message, only text. It was titled The Final Chapter.

“It looks like a manuscript,” Cooper blurted.

“Another one?” Dorothy replied.

“But it’s not complete,” Cooper announced. “It’s only about ten pages. I’m not sure what this is.”

Dorothy meandered around the bookstore sipping her decaf skim latte while Cooper and Edwards sat reading the text. Within minutes they began to realize just what the text was. It wasn’t a new manuscript – it was the final chapter of the unnamed story, now titled The Minchum Script. The heading was centered above the text. Cooper had to presume this was Minchum’s idea of stating the obvious, or maybe a preliminary title of sorts. Considering the events of the last few days, it seemed not only appropriate, but dead-on. The further they read, the more they came to realize what was going on. Cooper quickly became unsettled. The script in front of him, gleaming at him from the backlight of the monitor, began unraveling a story of revenge, murder and retribution. But what Cooper didn’t know was how he had become one of the characters, a puzzle piece in Minchum’s storyline. Cooper read on while Edwards read over his right shoulder.

An hour passed before they finished the text. Edwards never touched his coffee sitting on the table in front of them, having been completely engrossed in the text. Cooper now thought back to the original script, remembering how it had finished abruptly, very much out of character for Minchum. Now it made sense. Now it was a complete script. Edwards stepped around Cooper and sat across from him at the table, staring intently. He knew it was time to share the truth behind the story – a truth Cooper hadn’t pieced together yet, pieces Edwards would have to reveal to him. He leaned in over the edge of the table, his eyes zeroed in on Cooper. He still stared at the screen, letting the story sink in.

“Cooper.”

“Yeah, what is it?”

“Does any of that text mean anything to you?”

“Well, for starters, it looks like we’re not done. If I read it right, he’s got one last job. He’s planning on killing Richard, the main character, but who does he represent? How can we stop him?”

“Cooper… You’re Richard.”

“What!?”

“You’re Richard. He’s referring to you.”

“What makes you think it’s me? He’s got no reason to come after me.”

“Actually, he does – at least in his eyes,” Edwards replied.

“You’re kidding… right!”

Edwards paused, thinking through his thoughts before speaking. “Cooper,

when you were in the service, in Tel-Aviv, your platoon was ordered to conduct home raids throughout the city against suspected fanatic militants, right?”

“Well… yeah, why?”

“While you were being cross-examined back at the Hoover Building, I

took the opportunity to look through the file they had on you. It spoke of some of the missions you were involved in, specifically referring to the home raids. The details they had were amazing, right down to the location and suspect names. Within that file it mentioned that you were forced to take a ten-day leave soon after a home raid gone wrong. What do you remember of that raid?”

“We were never advised of the suspects identities on any of the raids. We

were given coordinates for a target only hours before. This was how they did it – Minimal information, maximum deniability if we were caught. Anyways, we entered a home in western Tel-Aviv in mid-morning, thinking we were undetected. Once inside, everything went wrong.”

“Why?” Edwards pushed on.

“The targets were waiting for us – like they new we were coming. Gunfire broke out and I hit the deck in the confusion. One of our guys went down. I heard him scream and the others rushed to him. As I went to stand, I rolled over and right there in front of me was a woman reaching for a pistol on a table. I yelled for her to stop but she grabbed it and swung towards me. I didn’t wait for her come all the way around before I let off two rounds. She went down. The other targets got away in all the chaos, while my platoon tended to our injured troop. The next day I briefed my commander on the incident and they told me to take some leave. I didn’t want to but it was mandatory leave while they conducted a small investigation into the incident. It was also their way of letting me deal with having shot another human being. It was crazy, why?”

“Cooper, I don’t know how to tell you this.”

“What?”

“The home you raided that night… you had been given inaccurate

coordinates and had entered the wrong home. Your team raided the Erobos family home, as in Demitri Erobos… as in Minchums home. The woman you killed was Minchums wife.”

Cooper couldn’t believe what he’d just heard. His breath froze in his throat as the words floated through the air and into his ears, causing his heart to palpitate with a sudden thump in his chest. The blood now flowing through his veins went cold and a chill surged through his body right to his fingers and toes. A knot grew in his throat; feeling like he’d swallowed a large ball bearing that wouldn’t shift up or down. His light crimson skin suddenly changed to a pale yellow-blue. The thoughts raced through every neuron in his brain as if they were stuck in a complex maze, desperately seeking logical conduits to a way out. Everything that he’d struggled to understand suddenly became clear.

“Cooper,” Edwards spoke.

He still didn’t answer, caught in his thoughts like a deer in headlights, unable to move or find the right reaction to exert.

“Cooper!”

“I killed Minchum’s wife. I… killed… his wife. Oh my god.”

CHAPTER 36

Cooper sat across the table from Edwards in a trance, his eyes staring into another world – a world he didn’t like. Disbelief had overtaken his thoughts. His face drew pale and his pupils dilated as if on speed. The room was spinning uncontrollably in a blur of coagulating colors and sounds. His hands shook uncontrollably on the table surface in front of him as the reality of his predicament took root inside of him. His heart felt like it had dropped to his feet, pulsating up his legs, trying desperately to force blood back to his head and brain. His world had crashed in all around him and he had no recovery plan for such a plummeting emotional state. His body retreated into the fight-or-flight mode, as if it were under attack, not realizing his thoughts were the cause, not some physical threat. He couldn’t move and his breathing was virtually faded to non-existent. He was transfixed in a mental state of limbo as the sounds and sights of the store around him disappeared into a blur of desperation. He tried shifting in his seat, but the chair beneath him felt as though it was somehow affixed to him and was now made of solid concrete, keeping him from escaping it’s deathly hold.

Edwards sat across from him starring at Cooper’s expression, one of disengagement and confusion. He felt for Cooper, guessing at what he might be feeling given the information. He couldn’t imagine what he was thinking, or if he was thinking at all. Edwards tried desperately to put himself in Cooper’s shoes, attempting to align his thoughts with his, but knew the depths of his thoughts would come well short of the fathoms to which Cooper’s may have gone. He dropped his head down and slightly towards Cooper, trying to break him from his trance with a comforting glance.

“Cooper, you all right?” he asked slightly under his breath.

“I… I just can’t believe it. How could this be? I’ve killed the wife of a

man I thought to be a friend, a business partner.”

“Cooper, you had no way of knowing. You’ve got to realize this is not

your fault! It’s impossible for you to have known about this. It’s been confidential until today – until now.”

“I killed his wife Edwards!” Cooper snapped back.

“This is not your burden to bear!” Edwards continued. “Minchum has

hung on to this and somehow found you over the years. With his ties to the C.I.A., it’s feasible he used his prior sources to track you down. But you’ve got to realize you were simply following orders. This wasn’t your fault.”

“But the shooting was kept out of my file, how could he know it was me?”

“Did you ever speak of your prior service when together?”

“Only in the first few weeks after we met. He spoke briefly about his

prior service and how he’d developed such intriguing sources for his books.”

“Did he ever ask you about Tel-Aviv?”

“Not specifically, but I may have mentioned I was stationed there in

passing.”

“That was probably enough to confirm his research on you. It may have

been his way of making sure he had the right man. After that, he probably brushed it under the rug for later.”

“You think Minchum planned all this?”

“Cooper… it would be silly to think otherwise. Although it originally felt

so, none of this is a coincidence at all. His plan was to take out the President publicly, but that failed. Whether or not he knows you had a part in that, he now seems to be focused on you and Dorothy.”

“What am I supposed to do now?” Cooper replied, sounding desperate.

“First things first. We need to get Dorothy and get out of here.”

“But the script! He’s going to hit Washington!” Cooper added.

“I know, I read it. First things first. Let’s find Dorothy and get moving.”

They hopped up out of their seats at the table, slammed the laptop shut and

hurried out into the bookstore in search of Dorothy.

She was an avid reader – a true book lover. A bookstore was her spa. She mostly enjoyed the classics such as Jules Verne and Charles Dickens, but had developed a taste for thrillers in the last few years as Cooper began to represent more and more of these kinds of authors. She’d often ventured into the bookstores in the neighborhood and would spend hours reading excerpts of several different books, searching for a new author of interest. She’d written some short stories in the past, but had been too shy to send any more of them to a publisher amidst Coopers encouragements to do so. The stories were collecting dust in a Tupperware container in the basement, awaiting discovery that would never come.

Cooper scurried around the store with Edwards at his heels, feverishly searching for Dorothy, but she was nowhere to be found. She was most likely nestled into one of the lounge chairs in a small nook in some desolate corner of the store, wrapped up in the pages of her newest find. They searched the downstairs to no avail. Cooper got nervous as he headed to the stairwell to the second floor. Climbing to the top of the steps, he stopped and scoured the floor plan with his eyes for a figure he could recognize anywhere, but she wasn’t there. The floor was quiet and he only saw a few people browsing through the aisles. A soft mix of classical music played in the background, keeping his anxiousness in check. They moved across the floor, looking into each and every corner, expecting to find her slumped in a chair immersed in her reading. Coopers pace quickened as he shuffled through each aisle with Edwards right behind him. They split up and covered every square inch with no luck. They met back in the center of the floor.

“I can’t find her anywhere!” Cooper explained.

“Where could she have gone? We’ve checked the entire store,” Edwards replied.

“It’s not like her to just disappear like this. If she’d gone somewhere else,

she would have told me. It’s just not like her.”

“What about the ladies room?” Edwards said.

“I already asked a young lady headed in there to check, but she said it

was empty.”

“The café?”

“We would have seen her.”

Edwards had an idea. “Call her cell. She has it with her right?”

“Of course! Hang on.” Cooper reached into his pocked and pulled out his phone. He quickly scrolled through his stored numbers and clicked on Dorothy’s. The phone began ringing. After the fourth ring a sound cut in on the speaker that sounded like someone had answered, but wasn’t speaking.

“Dorothy! .. Hello!” Cooper said into the microphone. “Dorothy, you there?” But then a voice spoke – a voice very different from Dorothy’s. It was one he knew, one he’d heard before.

“Hello Cooper.”

Cooper tilted his head like a dog that’d watched his owner do something he didn’t understand. His brain raced to match a face with the voice.

“Who is this?” he asked, curious why a man’s voice had answered her phone.

“Now come on. I expect more from you Cooper.” the voice replied in a subtle tone. That’s when it hit him. It was a phrase he heard him say several times before. It was Minchum. But how? Why was he answering Dorothy’s phone? Then it struck him. His mind raced back to the revised script he’d just finished reading downstairs only minutes ago. Once again, Minchum had fulfilled his words from his writing; from this harrowing story Cooper was now living.

“She’s alright Cooper. We just went for a little ride,” Minchum’s voice spoke through the earpiece.

“Minchum, what are you doing? Where’s Dorothy!?” Cooper cracked back into the phone – anger raging through his veins. Edwards stood in Cooper’s face tying to piece together the fragmented conversation happening before him. It didn’t take long for him to figure it out.

“Minchum. Please… where’s Dorothy?” Cooper asked, trying to calm himself.

“She’s with me – she’s just fine,” he replied sounding eerily calm about it all. Cooper’s hand began trembling as he kept the phone pressed firmly against his ear. His pulse quickened in sheer terror. Minchum had Dorothy. The script was fulfilled once again. Minchum had scribed this in writing, which Cooper had read only minutes ago, but had no idea the threat was so imminent. He’d described a plot of a foiled attack, then vengeance – vengeance against the man who had turned his life upside-down, vengeance against the man who’d killed his wife, vengeance against the man who’d spoiled his plan against the most powerful man in the world. Cooper plunged into a fit of panic, knowing the plot had described the kidnapping of a woman, a woman close to his characters heart and killing her in a fit of rage. Cooper didn’t know what to do. He’d already lost his daughter and couldn’t bear the thought of losing Dorothy too. But she was gone – now in the grasp of a man who blamed him for his wife’s death. Trembles rumbled down his spine and through his legs as the jolt of adrenaline surged back up through his body.

“Minchum, please!” he blurted in trepidation.

“I’m sorry it’s come to this Cooper. This was not meant to happen.

You’ve ruined everything. You have to pay for what you’ve done. The Administration has to pay for what they’ve done. It’s unfortunate that you got in the way downtown, but now both of you must pay the same price that I have; one of misguided servitude, loved one’s lost and failure of our leadership to do what is right. Thousands are dying every day in mass genocidal killings in the Sudanese region of Darfur with minimal reaction from the White House. A veritable ethnic cleansing of upwards of four hundred thousand is happening to the land-tilling tribes not associated with the Baggara sects by the Muslim JanJaweed militia funded covertly by the Sudanese government. Somalian’s now pay the cost of U.S. intrusion without continued support or presence as that country falls back into a state of anarchy as the elected governments power falls only to the edges of it’s capital city. Afghanistan lies in ruins with no imminent plan for reconstruction of its infrastructure while the Taliban regroups and regenerates its hold as fundamentalist warlords terrorize their respective regions. Iraqi’s lay dead on their own street corners as U.S. forces fail to maintain any sense of control due to poor leadership and a misguided set of foreign policies. The Sunni’s and the Shia’s fight against themselves and amongst each other while insurgent militia continue to instill a reign of fear within the country’s many volatile regions. The Kurds, Arabs and the Turkman murder one another for control of the eastern regions of Iraq as Al Queda builds strength from the chaos, easily recruiting those who have lost faith in Western relief and now turn to traditionalist thought for restitution of their losses. The entire middle-east is in a state of upheaval with no real solutions to turn to while Westerners shop for diamond that have shed tribal blood to reach our shores. Injustice runs rampant across our globe and the country with the ability to adjust these fluxing imbalances has done all but the right thing to remedy theses injustices.”

Cooper stood motionless, as if in a bewildered, trance-like state. He listened as Minchum downloaded the problems of the world upon his shoulders, not stopping for a breath of air between words. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. How could Minchum amalgamate all the world’s struggles and hardships into the direct responsibility of the United States? It was absurd. Granted, the U.S. has been far from a role model with respect to foreign affairs over the last decade, but Minchum seemed to have lost touch with reality, with himself and the political world around him. His words were stern and crisp, almost if he were reading a speech, never faltering on a word or phrase as he continued his disconnected monologue.

“It’s time they paid their price. Someone has to fall.”

“Please Minchum! Bring Dorothy back. She has nothing to do with any of this!”

“You’re right, but for now she remains with me,” he answered.

“How could you take her? How did you find us?”

Minchum hesitated briefly, as he always did before, choosing his words wisely as if he were editing his speech as he did his writing.

“My time at the C.I.A. has afforded me some luxuries in Intel. An email

account can act as a beacon under the right hands,” he said sounding as if he might be grinning through the phone.

“But you…”

“Your time will come Cooper. But for now, I’ll ask for your cooperation.”

“For what?”

“You’ve made the acquaintance with a television crew from Channel 9.”

“The cameraman? At the F.B.I. Building? Why?”

“ He is the key. You must find him. I will call you in three hours, at four o’clock, for further instructions. But Cooper… let’s do this right. No authorities involved. If you do, than Dorothy dies,” then he hung up.

CHAPTER 36

Jim stammered down the steps into the glare of the low afternoon sun seeping through his windows into the living room. His eyes were still blurry from his brief but deep nap, having fallen asleep in the lounger next to his bed. The wooden steps creaked beneath his generous proportions as he made his way down to the living room. He was about six foot and plump in the belly, having always been fond of his multi-brew nightcap each night before turning in. He lived alone in his two-bedroom town home in Arlington and made no effort on upkeep for himself or his home; no doubt factored by his bachelorhood at age forty-four.

His sleep patterns were chaotic at best, constantly having to curtail his slumber based on the story at hand. Over the last twenty-four hours, he hadn’t had much except this morning’s four-hour snooze. His blond hair was thinning and still ragged from his nap, but he’d thrown on his work clothes and a new pair of black polyester socks he’d just bought the other day. They felt soft under his feet as he walked down the hallway to the kitchen for a cup of coffee – his staple breakfast of champions. The house was a wreck. There were small piles of audio/video recording equipment strewn across the house with no noticeable effort towards categorization of like items. The furniture was a mélange of thrift store bargains and hand-me-downs from his parents from years past. The walls were devoid of decoration and the paint was cracked and in quite a state of decay.

He marched through the mess and into the kitchen where he’d already started a pot, reaching into a cupboard door for a mug three times the size of your average serving. He poured himself a healthy pour and stirred in his two teaspoons of sugar. Just as he lifted his mug for the first refreshing sip, his cell phone buzzed and vibrated across the kitchen counter. He set down his mug, picked up the phone and looked at the screen. Five missed calls, all from Mark this afternoon. He flipped the phone open.

“Mark. What’s up?”

“”Jim? Why haven’t you answered your phone?”

“It’s called sleep Mark, something you should try once in a while. What

can I do for you?” he said pseudo-sarcastically.

“Jim, I need you down here. We just got a break and I need you here right

now.”

“What kind of break?”

“You remember the guy you told me about at the Hoover Building?”

“Cooper. Yeah, why?”

“I just got word he’s now a fugitive. He ran from the Feds. He somehow

got out of the Hoover Building and is now on the run.”

“You’re kidding!”

“No. But it gets better! The Detective that was with him, Detective

Edwards.”

“Yeah.”

“He’s gone too. They think he helped him.”

“What! You’re kidding!”

“Nope. We’ve got the story of the year here Jim. We’re the only one’s

with the inside scoop. I need you to get down here as soon as you can.”

“Alright. Let me get cleaned up and I’ll be right there.” Jim replied and

hung up the phone. He couldn’t believe it. How could someone escape the building housing what are supposed to be the cream-of-the-crop security experts? He laughed aloud as he climbed the stairs back up to his room, stricken by the irony of the escape. This couldn’t be good for the Feds inside. How would they respond to this, he wondered. All the networks would undoubtedly tear them apart. Given that they were dealing with an attack on the President and his staff, this would just be another blow to the already tattered image of American Federal Intelligence. He gathered his wallet and keys, threw on a pair of comfortable running shoes – knowing good-and-well he was in for another long day – and rushed back downstairs. He grabbed some equipment from several different piles in his living room; a camera, some tapes, his tripod and several smaller bags of recording equipment and rushed out the door.

CHAPTER 38

He held the phone to his ear for several seconds after Minchum had hung up. His face was flushed and his eyes were glazed. Thoughts raced through his pounding head and panic crept into his heart. He couldn’t believe he’d just spoken to a man he thought was a friend, a man he thought had been killed, who’d made an attempt on the President’s life and tried to set him up for the fall and had now kidnapped his wife right from under his nose. It all seemed surreal and he simply couldn’t believe all this was really happening – not to him. Edwards watched him, thinking Minchum was still talking, anxious to hear about the words just exchanged. Cooper then slowly lowered the phone from his ear as the loud beeping of a disconnected line rang through on the cell phones earpiece, loud enough for Edwards to notice.

“Cooper. Was that him? Where is he? What does he want?”

“He’s got Dorothy!” Cooper replied with desperate voice.

“What?!”

“How could he have found us so quickly?”

Edwards didn’t answer immediately, but thought the question through before responding. He had been in law enforcement for years and had some experience in tracking suspects in the past. But he knew they’d been careful, avoiding the obvious places to go. Then it occurred to him.

“Cooper, he may have hit us on-line.”

“What? How?”

“Last year I was involved in an F.B.I. investigation of a child sexual

predator. He’d been very careful to never stay somewhere too long, never giving us time to zero-in on his location. He’d been suspected of more than twelve cases of sexual assault on a minor across six different states. Eventually the F.B.I. got frustrated and asked for some assistance from the C.I.A. and they got it. They brought over this computer geek, pocket-protector and all, who had set up the equivalent of an on-line sonar.”

“A what?” Cooper was confused, knowing full well that sonar simply

worked under water.

“They called it an NP or Network Pinger. It tags an individual’s account

and sends a signal to who’s watching that the user accesses it.”

“What was it? Why are you telling me this?”

“Cooper, given Minchums background with the C.I.A., he probably had

access to something like this. Whenever someone accesses his or her email account or network from a remote location, a signal, or “pinger” is sent out through the network. Once that signal is picked up, it can be used like a sonar signal, only backwards. As it pings, all the tracker has to do is zero-in on the signal coming from the terminal or laptop location. It can be accurate within a few blocks. He must have picked us up on-line through the bookstores hotspot and knew it was the only Internet source in this area we might use.”

“Holy shit! Are you serious? Stuff like that really exists?”

“Cooper, you’d be amazed at what big brother can do.”

Cooper couldn’t believe it. There wasn’t anything anyone could do without being watched if the right person was looking. He’d read about these sorts of gadgets in some of Minchum’s novels, but never imagined there was much truth to them. It made him sick to think about it. Every step, every move Minchum made, was all laid-out in front of him in his script and yet, every time, Cooper felt three steps behind. He felt infuriated and disgusted all at once. From the design of the attack, to the gadget he used, Minchum had never hidden his methods and yet, he couldn’t stop him.

“What did he say to you Cooper?” Edwards cut in.

“He’s got Dorothy! He said if I got anyone involved, he’d kill her. He

wants me to find the cameraman from Channel 9 that was at the Hoover Building with us and he’d call back at four o’clock for further instructions.”

“You mean Jim?”

“Yeah, I guess that was his name?”

“How did he know who was there?” Edwards remarked curiously. “There

must be someone inside, someone feeding him information.”

“Great!” Cooper blurted sounding even more frustrated, knowing there

was more than just Minchum to deal with? “But how do we find Jim?”

“That shouldn’t be too hard. The network office should be able to track

him down.”

“True, but Edwards… we’re fugitives from the friggin’ Federal

Government! What if the words out? We can’t just show up at a major news network office and expect to keep things quiet.” Edwards hadn’t seen it. As before, he felt silly he hadn’t thought of it and Cooper, again surprised him with his clarity and astuteness considering his predicament.

“You right. But we’ve got three hours to find this guy…”

“Or he’ll kill her!” Cooper finished his sentence, again sounding panicked. “But how?”

“Give me a second… I’ve got to think this through.”

Edwards stepped away from Cooper, pacing back and forth in the bookstore’s Mystery/Suspense aisle. Cooper immediately saw the irony as he watched Edwards in deep thought, pacing back and forth. Cooper did some thinking of his own, but struggled to find clarity amongst the knotted ball of criss-crossed wiring in his head. A tear formed on his lower eyelid and slowly ran down the front of his left cheek. He couldn’t shake the fear of losing Dorothy from his mind.

“I think I’ve got an idea,” Edwards finally spoke. “A good one. Let me see your phone.”

“Why? What are you thinking?”

“Just give me the phone. I think I know how to get Jim to help us.”

Cooper reached back in his coat pocket and pulled out his phone, handing it to Edward’s outstretched arm. He swiftly grabbed it and dialed 411.

“What city and state please?” the recording asked.

“Arlington, Virginia”

“What listing?” it continued.

“Channel Nine newsroom please.”

“I have that number here, would you like me to connect you?”

“Please.”

“Have nice day.”

Edwards chuckled into the phone. If only she knew.

CHAPTER 39

Jim pulled his seventy-nine Plymouth Volare into a spot not far from the building and climbed out, throwing back the last gulp of Red Bull from his can and tossing it into the passenger-side floorboard. The car looked to be in the same condition as his house; rough and unkept. He walked around to the back of the car, threw open the trunk and pulled out the slew of equipment he’d gathered at his home. Throwing five or six shoulder straps over his right shoulder, he leaned back and slammed down the trunk-lid. Most cars might have been damaged under the force, but on his car, it was the only way he could get the darn thing to latch at all. He fumbled his way to the front door of the glass-front office building, suitably marked with a large illuminated nine just above the entrance. He often looked up at the nine as he entered the building, wondering if one day, the sheer weight of the massive number would break loose and come crashing down on top of him.

He entered the front foyer and shot a brief polite grin to Betty behind the welcome desk. She was sweet, but too naïve for his taste. She’d been with Channel Nine for seven years, fully content to remain behind that desk in the foyer. She liked her job and he thought it suited her non-descript personality. He reached into one of the many bags hanging from the shoulder straps and pulled out his access card, swiping it through the reader by the door to the staff offices. Many of his visitors commented on the need of such a security measure in a network building and he’d answer by reminding them that most of the stories they covered often made enemies of others.

There was one instance of a local statesman who came barreling into the station soon after they aired a segment on him. The story they aired on the local news exposed how their chief investigative reporter discovered him using taxpayer dollars for evening trips to local strip clubs in Richmond on his last three trips to the city while on the government’s time. He’d come running straight into the newsroom while they were pre-recording a late night news replay. With cameras rolling, he proceeded to thrash around the room, throwing set lights and cameras crashing to the floor while screaming profanities at the closest staff member. One of the cameras was located above the scene on a balcony and caught the whole charade, which was in turn aired the next morning, again, exposing him to the watching Virginia voters. One week later he had announced his resignation as State Deputy Treasurer and no one’s heard from him since.

The door-handle light flipped from red to green with a beep and he shoved forward, letting the bags push their way through the doorway. Inside, the newsroom was like any other; a muddle of intricately arranged cubicles, busy journalist typing erratically away at their keyboards and large flat screen television monitors scattered around in every direction – each showing a different picture of the days ongoing stories. Some coverage on yesterday’s attack on the White House and others on governmental policy critics waving their wands of wisdom around, chanting of bipartisan politics, throwing blame to the opposite side of the political see-saw when ever possible. The room was dim but not dark, lending to the intensity of the atmosphere of the past day’s storyline. To the left was a side room filled with backlit glass-enclosed offices of the station manager and the lead anchor team. Jim hated them – with their overanxious egos and hairspray-hardened hair.

He shuffled through the maze of cubicle walls in the central floor, occasionally knocking over another’s penholder or picture frame perched on the corner of their desks. He paid no mind and marched in the direction of Mark’s office on the far side of the room. He could see Mark through his glass door, turned to the left with his head hunkered down as if try to have a private conversation on the phone. This wasn’t like Mark to hide things. He always had to have the spotlight, even if it was from behind his desk in his office. Jim reached the door and shoved it open, knocking against the doorframe as he slid into the room. Mark was virtually whispering into the phone, still crouched over as if it was a childhood hamster he had to protect from the grown up world. Mark didn’t look up but motioned with his hand outstretched to sit in the chair in front of his desk, then held his index finger up and held it steady as if to signal him to stand-by. The phone conversation went on.

“When?” Mark murmured into the mouthpiece.

Then a pause.

“How do I know you’re being straight with me?”

Another long pause.

“Alright. We’ll wait for your call,” then he hung up the phone.

“What was that all about?” Jim asked sarcastically.

“You’re not gonna believe who that was!”

“Okay, I’ll bite… Who?”

“That was Cooper!”

“Come on.”

“I’m serious. That was Cooper just now. He wants us to help him and in

turn, we get the exclusive on his story, the whole thing!”

“What’s the catch?” Jim retorted, doubting the validity of the deal

presented to them.

“Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth Jim. He proposed a simple deal.

We offer our cameras to prove his innocence and in turn, we get the story. Simple really.”

“What about the legalities of it all. Can we get involved without alerting

the police?”

“Jim, we need this. Think about what this could do for us, for our careers.

Hell… it might afford you a new car to replace that hunk of crap you’ve got and maybe someone to help you clean up your house. Think about the possibilities,” he said as he pointed at the wall to his left.

On it hung plaque after plaque of awards he’d received from the network for his story coverage in the field. As a shrine to his deep-rooted arrogance, was a void in the center of his mural of self-appreciation. Everyone in the station knew what the gap was left there for – the Emmy for News Anchor of the Year. He showed the gap on his wall as proudly as the plaques themselves, demonstrating his confidence in eventually receiving the award. Jim scoffed at his insinuation. He hadn’t chose to work with Mark, but the station manager insisted he was his best cameraman and he needed his best cameraman with his best field man.

Jim wasn’t impressed with Mark. He saw through the chiseled jaw line, the perfectly manicured hair and the ego large enough to crush a meager mans fragile sense of confidence. He had gotten to know Mark and he was no goliath. He hid behind his ego allowing his accolades to act as trusses for psychological support. Fortunately for Mark, Jim was a slouch. He had no drive, no remorse and no professional instinct to do what was right. He always seemed to fall in with the flow, daydreaming of the longnecks chilling in his fridge, awaiting his return and companionship. He wasn’t the least bit concerned with climbing any steps on any sort of ladder, let alone the corporate one. If Mark wanted to do this, he was up for a ride.

“Alright. What’s next?” Jim replied.

“Cooper said we needed to stay put. In a few hours he’d call us back with

a possible meeting point. They’d all be there.”

“They… all?”

“Detective Edwards, Cooper, his wife and… Minchum – the author.”

“Are you serious!”

“Yep. If this all works out…”

“Sounds risky. You sure you want to do this without letting David in on

this. Being the station manager and all, it might be wise.”

“No! This one’s ours. We’ll be all right – don’t worry. If we smell

trouble, we bolt.”

“Your call,” Jim responded, shrugging his shoulders.

“Drop your stuff – stay a while. We’ve got work to do.”

“Like what?”

“We need to find everything we can on all four of our players.”

Jim grunted under his breath and dropped his head back over the top the chair he sat in. Then he stood up and moved towards the office door, dropping his equipment to either side of the chair, rubbing his shoulders as he walked to the door.

“Where you going?” Mark blurted.

“You said he’d call in a few hours, right?”

“Yeah, why?”

“Well then, I need lots of coffee and a couple of donuts. You want

something from the lounge?”

Mark sighed, “Yeah, sure. Coffee would be great.”

CHAPTER 40

Agent McCaffrey sat slumped over his desk like a wounded eagle on a deadwood perch. His eyes carried bags the size of carry-ons and his face was buried in a mound of paperwork of which he couldn’t make heads or tails. The last twenty-four hours were brutally humiliating and he’d yet gone to sleep after Coopers escape. He’d been through the ringer with the Director and now would most likely be demoted, if not loose his job. The White House had been all over the Director and he in turn, buried McCaffrey alive, throwing him directly in front of the oncoming blame-bus without a hint of hesitation. He could do nothing but stand there and let it hit him. He’d screwed-up royally and it was time to face the music – accepting the blame entirely for the escape of the only lead they had on the attack.

McCaffrey could feel the bubble of void surrounding him while he sat in his office. Without even looking up, he sensed the tension around him. Agents went out of their way to walk the long way around his office, avoiding being within eyesight away from his glass-paned doors. No one wanted to be associated with him, steering clear of the negative vibes reverberating from his office.

The Director had just left his office, dumping the stack of files on his desk; files containing the most obscure facts and possible connection between Minchum, or Demitri, Cooper and Detective Edwards. They also contained some possible loose connections between Minchum and unidentified rogue members of specific Muslim and Palestinian militia organizations affiliated with both Sunni Al-Qaeda and the P.L.O. The Director slammed the stack down on his desk.

“Find it!”

“Uh, find what specifically?”

“Find the link! Then find them and do it quickly! You made this mess

and you better fix it fast. You’ve got five hours… and this time don’t screw up. We don’t have a lot of time. Your job, heck – your life as you once knew it, depends on this. We’ve got a ticking time bomb out there and it could go off any time soon.” Then he marched out, slamming his door behind him, nearly shattering the glass panes.

The Director of the F.B.I. was no man to mess with. If he wanted something from anyone, they got it – no questions asked and they got it for him yesterday. He’d been raised through the right seeds; a family and network full of money and influence – having attended the University of California – Berkley where he earned a law degree. He found work with several different law firms in the San Francisco and New York areas where he had great success prosecuting everything from white-collar crime to capital murder cases. From there he served on the Law Review for several years before moving to the position of Deputy Attorney General in the Department of Justice. After five years of dedicated service under the Department of Justice, he was nominated by the President as the F.B.I. Director and has served seven loyal but difficult years with the Bureau since. He was robust on street thugs and white-collar crime, but his true passion was international policy law.

It wasn’t just his reputation that demanded respect. He was six-foot, four-inches and built like a defensive lineman. In his younger years, he’d played football at Berkley and now at fifty-eight, he looked like he hadn’t missed a step. His hair was a virtually gone but his thick goatee drew a look of wisdom to his wrinkled face. He was a man to fear all right – his reputation and his stature demanded the attention of all around.