Terror in D.C. (4 page)

“Your point has been made,” the admiral said impatiently. “Please get on with your summary.”

“That is my summary, Admiral. I thought the participant performed as well or better than anyone who has ever been through the course—and he did it without any training from us.”

The admiral slammed his hand down on the table. “He was killed, damn it!”

“Yes, by a woman with a shopping bag.”

“How can you not agree with Agent Nelson? He should have known her intentions from the moment he saw her!”

“It was undoubtedly a mistake.”

“And a damn stupid mistake at that!”

“Quite stupid, sir.” (Hawker winced.) “The participant obviously wasn't thinking clearly. He should have known, yes.”

“And yet you insist his performance was good? Despite the sloppy shooting, despite his errors in judgment, despite the fact that he was killed?”

“I still feel his performance on the course was exceptionally good. As I said, only one other participant has ever done as well—”

“That's quite enough,” grumped the admiral. “Thank you, Agent Rehfuss, for your summary.”

Admiral Maxwell Percival folded his hands and cleared his throat, about to make a summation of his own. He nodded toward Hawker. “I cannot agree with the assessment of Agent Rehfuss. I do not think your performance was exceptional. It was, I feel, quite ordinary. In certain obvious ways, it was totally unsatisfactory. Please don't misunderstand my words. This is not a personal attack on you. My agency was asked to consider you for temporary assignment. The individuals making the request were people of such impeccable judgment that I could not, in good conscience, refuse to give you a trial. You have now had that trial and, in my judgment, did not complete it satisfactorily. The work of the Central Intelligence Agency is complex and sometimes dangerous. It is not work for amateurs, however good their intentions. We thank you for your concern.”

Admiral Percival closed the folder on his desk and looked around the table. “Any comments?”

Hendricks was the first to speak. “I'm afraid I have to agree with you, Max. Awfully kind of you to let us have a fling, though.”

“I should apologize for wasting so much of your time,” Jacob Hayes put in. “We didn't realize the scope of the job involved when we first made the proposal.”

Hawker couldn't believe his ears. He opened his mouth to speak, but Lester Rehfuss touched him on the shoulder and shook his head wordlessly.

Percival stood, shoved the folder under his arm, and headed for the door. As he passed Hawker, a slip of paper floated down on the table in front of him. The admiral seemed not to notice. “Good day, gentlemen,” he called over his shoulder. “Have a safe journey home.”

Hawker picked up the slip of paper that had fallen from the admiral's folder. There was writing on it. It read, Meet me for lunch at the Eastern Chalice in 30 minutes.

Hawker looked at Rehfuss. “This isn't for me, is it—”

“Thanks a lot for coming, gentlemen,” the agent said loudly while giving Hawker a pointed look.

Obviously, he didn't want Hawker to acknowledge the note. Jake Hayes and Hendricks, he noticed, didn't look the least bit confused.

What the hell could it mean? Could somebody be eavesdropping? There were certainly people in the film room, but so what? This was the CIA, where everyone had maximum security clearance.

Why couldn't they speak openly?

Hawker shrugged. “Thanks for the chance, Lester,” he said, shaking Rehfuss's hand.

“Our pleasure. I still think you looked pretty good out there, but the admiral knows more about it than I do—maybe that's why he has final say. I'll have the guards escort you to the compound exit.”

“Lester,” Hawker put in quickly, “there's one more thing I wanted to ask. You said one other man had done as well as I did on the course. Why in the hell don't you get him for this assignment?”

Rehfuss looked surprised for a moment, then smiled. “We'd love to, Mr. Hawker, we really would. Your styles are very much alike.
Very
much alike. Unfortunately, he was killed in the line of duty several months ago.”

“Rehfuss,” Hawker said dryly, “you really know how to boost a man's confidence.”

five

Half an hour later the lanky CIA man was waiting at a darkened table in the far corner of the Eastern Chalice Restaurant with Admiral Max Percival.

The Eastern Chalice was a Syrian ethnic hole-in-the-wall eatery on a street lined with go-go-dancer bars and massage parlors, just off the Anacostia River.

Hawker entered first, followed by Hayes and Hendricks. The Eastern Chalice had a chrome and glass dime-store facade, but inside it was dark and cool, and the air was spiced with incense. Beaded curtains covered the inner doorways, and the floors and walls were decorated with heavy Persian carpets. Hawker couldn't tell if the sitar music was from a radio or a tape.

The host wore a turban. He showed them to Percival's table and bowed a retreat after Rehfuss stuck a bill in his hand.

The admiral stood at their arrival, more cordial than he had been all morning. He thrust out his hand. “Hendricks, it's good to see you—still feel as if I ought to snap off a salute when I see you coming. Mr. Hayes, have a seat. I had one of my people check, like you asked, and they do have vegetarian dishes here. Mr. Hawker, no more criticism and no more films—I promise.”

The table was only knee-high, and Hawker sat on a satin pillow between Rehfuss and Admiral Percival. “That's a relief,” he said. “Back at the compound, I was beginning to feel like a kid with braces applying to Harvard.”

“The criticism from my two agents, you mean? I'm afraid their points were absolutely valid.”

Hawker nodded. “I hate to admit it, but I think they were right, too, Admiral. That's what bothers me.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah, I can't figure out why you have me here.”

“Don't worry, Hawk.” Rehfuss laughed. “The reasons aren't all that obvious.”

“Then tell me—”

“Gentlemen,” Hendricks interrupted, “I suggest we order first, then let Admiral Percival explain this meeting to James. Does that seem sensible to you, Admiral?”

“You know damn well it does, Hank.” The old Navy man looked at Hawker. “See, like all good undercover men, Hank has a real aversion to waiters flitting around. He wants to get their business out of the way before he gets to his own.”

“Exactly, sir.”

The admiral laughed. “Would you believe that it was me who used to call Hendricks ‘sir'?”

“Believe it?” Jacob Hayes smiled. “He's my butler, and I
still
find myself slipping up and calling him ‘sir.' He gets a big kick out of it.”

Hawker ordered curried goat, brown rice, sour cream, black bread, and green tea. The men made small talk until the meal was finished, the plates cleared, and the dessert refused.

Over espresso in eggshell-thin demitasses, Admiral Percival began to speak. Unlike the earlier meeting, he spoke softly, reflectively, almost as if he were reminding himself why the five of them now sat at the same table.

He said, “Mr. Hawker, you've waited long enough for an explanation. The fact is, I want you to work for us. I was impressed by your performance on the firefight range, as well as the scores on your other tests. I am confident that you will conduct yourself with the best interests of this country, the agency, and the civilian population.” The older man reached his hand across the table. “Still interested?”

After hesitating in surprise, Hawker shook his hand. “But why the brush-off back at the complex? I don't get it, Admiral. Everyone went along with you so easily—was I the only one not in on the joke?”

“Let's hope not,” Hendricks said mildly. “The admiral wants no one—absolutely no one aside from us—to know you have been retained by the agency. That is why you were officially refused employment. As far as everyone involved with the CIA is concerned, you were considered for a special assignment, then turned away.”

“But the fact is, James, we need a man just like you,” the admiral continued. “I need someone who is as good as the best our Blue Light sector has to offer—but isn't connected with the CIA in any way. Let me explain from the beginning. Seven weeks and six days ago, a terrorist organization began to bomb civilian homes in the D.C. area. They have bombed one home a week since then, always on a Friday, Saturday, or Sunday night or early morning. The explosions are of such force that there has been only one survivor—a teenage boy who was not in his house at the time. On the morning following every bombing, someone—always a different male voice with an Arabic accent—calls
The Washington Post
and delivers the same message—‘Another American family has been punished for the crimes of the United States against the peace-loving peoples of the Middle East.'

“Psychologically, the bombings are horribly effective. The weekly occurrence, the impossibility of knowing where the terrorists are going to strike next, have pushed the population near panic. Our agency, at the request of the President, has joined with the FBI and the city police to coordinate a massive investigation. But I'm sure you know how time-consuming a proper investigation is—and we still have all too little to go on. Victims do, indeed, seem to be chosen randomly. Protestants, Jews, Catholics, whites, and blacks have all been victims—twenty-seven, in all.”

Hawker interrupted. “What about political affiliations? Any connections there?”

Percival shook his head. “All the victims were relatively conservative—which is to be expected from people with families. But they were a fairly even mix of Democrats and Republicans, with a few registered Independents.”

“Did any of them work for our government?”

“Not in any major capacity.”

“Did any of them have links to high-ranking government officials?”

“Only one. Last Friday the Chester Rutledge home in Bethesda was bombed. Mrs. Betty Rutledge—the late Mrs. Rutledge—was the sister of Senator Thy Estes, a member of the Senate Foreign Relations Committee, and one of the most respected women on the Hill.”

“Thy?”

“Yes. It's spelled T-H-Y, but it's pronounced like the first syllable of theater. She's quite a woman.”

Jake Hayes spoke. “Remember I said a friend called me on Saturday and asked for my help? The friend was Senator Estes. She was still a little in shock, and terribly distraught. I've known the senator for many years and she knew, of course, how my own son was murdered by a terrorist. I think she called seeking comfort, but during the conversation I mentioned there might be a route more direct than the legal process to stop these madmen. She jumped at the idea, I knew something of your record as the founder of the Chicago SWAT team, James, so I immediately got in touch with you—”

“Mr. Hayes,” Admiral Percival interrupted uneasily, “I'd rather not hear any more about your relationship with Mr. Hawker. I could tell you of the rumors my agency has heard about an auburn-haired American vigilante who, with an apparently inexhaustible source of financial backing, has declared war on the violent criminals of this nation. I could tell you, but I won't.” The old Navy man smiled slightly. “In other words, you need not waste your time trying to disguise your relationship with Mr. Hawker. All I know is that Senator Estes recommended Mr. Hawker to my attention as a source of possible aid in a very difficult case. His services were refused—and that is all I care to know.”

Hayes nodded his understanding. “Of course, Admiral. I was just explaining to James how he happened to be sitting here digesting goat instead of relaxing in Florida fishing for tarpon.”

“And now that I'm here,” Hawker put in, “I'm anxious to find out what you want me to do.”

“Of course. As I was saying, the investigation has not been easy, but we have come up with a few tentative conclusions. The bombs they use are devastating. From the on-site debris, we know they are highly sophisticated devices. They are probably imported in their component parts and assembled here. Because of the frequency of the bombings, there's probably a permanent storage area for the materials. They may also be assembled at that site, but it is more likely that they do it elsewhere. We suspect the terrorists have tried to decentralize their operation as much as possible.

“Our investigators have hypothesized that on the morning of that night's attack, the terrorists leave their headquarters, go to the storage area for a single bomb's components, then take it to an assembly area for final construction. To have evaded our investigations so successfully, we must also assume that their storage and assembly areas enjoy very good security—a security so complete that they are beyond the normal jurisdiction of law-enforcement agencies. It's the only thing that makes sense.”

“Yet the areas have to be in Washington, D.C.—or very nearby,” Hawker said thoughtfully.

“Exactly.”

“Then you have to suspect the obvious—that the terrorists are operating out of one or more of the foreign embassies.”

Admiral Percival nodded emphatically. “We do suspect it. We strongly suspect it. We have tendered letters of inquiry to the embassies of all the Mideastern nations. Of course, their ambassadors show great indignation at even being questioned. They naturally disavow any knowledge of the bombings.”

Hendricks added, “And, of course, the confines of all embassies are sacred ground—in this country, anyway. To violate their boundaries is to forfeit the sanctity of your own embassies all around the world.”

“Not that they haven't been violated often enough,” Percival added. “But Hank is right. If we forced an investigation on any of the embassies, it would be an international incident that would pretty much end the foreign embassy system. The President agrees. We can snoop all we want from the outside, but no one with any government connection can set foot inside.”