Dead or Alive (98 page)

“What’s that?” Rounds replied.

“The why of it all. This guy’s thinking is too layered. All the pieces and parts of Lotus—Yucca Mountain, the
Losan,
the attacks in the Midwest ... Was the whole point terror, or something bigger? It has to be more than Nine-Eleven writ large, right?”

Clark cocked his head thoughtfully and looked to Hendley, who took a beat, then said, “Damned good question.”

 

 

B
y mid-morning they had what they wanted; they turned their attention to the tricky matter of turning Yasin over to the FBI. As symbolically and visually appealing as the idea might be, trussing up the Emir like a Christmas goose and shoving him from a moving car onto the steps of the Hoover Building was a nonstarter. The Campus had for weeks been skirting the gray line between remaining in the shadows where it was designed to operate and attracting the attention of the U.S. government.

So the question became how to “regift” the world’s most wanted terrorist without having it blow back on them. In the end, Dominic Caruso, having learned the lesson from Brian, came up with the solution.

“KISS,” he said. “Keep it simple, stupid.”

“Explain.” This from Hendley.

“We’re overthinking it. We’ve already got the perfect cutout: Gus Werner. He tapped me for The Campus, and he’s in tight with Dan Murray, Director of the FBI.”

“This is a damned big gift horse, Dom,” said Chavez. “Think he’ll go for it? Better question: Think he can make it work?”

“How would it go down?” asked Jack.

“He’ll be arrested immediately and locked up in a very secure location. You know, read him his rights, offer him an attorney, try to talk to him some. Get a U.S. Attorney involved. They’ll tell the Attorney General, who’ll tell the President. After that, the snowball starts getting big. The press gets involved, and we sit back and watch the show. Listen, Gus knows how we work, and he knows how the Bureau works. If anybody can sell it, he can.”

Hendley considered this for a few moments, then nodded. “Call him.”

 

 

 

I
n the Hoover Building, Gus Werner’s phone rang. It was his private line, and few people had access to that. “Werner.”

“Dominic Caruso here, Mr. Werner. You got a few minutes this afternoon? Say, twenty minutes.”

“Uh, sure. When?”

“Now.”

“Okay, come on down.”

 

 

D
ominic parked a block from the Hoover Building and went into the main lobby, showing his FBI ID to the desk guards. That allowed him to walk around the metal detectors. FBI agents were supposed to carry sidearms. In fact, Dominic wasn’t at the moment. He’d forgotten and left it at his desk, rather to his surprise.

Augustus Werner’s office was on the top floor, complete with a secretary that he rated as a full assistant director of the FBI, just a few doors away from Dan Murray’s rather larger director’s office. Dominic announced himself to the secretary, and she whisked him right in. He took a seat across from the AD’s desk. It was exactly 3:30 by his watch.

“Okay, Dominic, what do you want?” Werner asked.

“I have an offer to make.”

“What offer is that?”

“You want the Emir?” Dominic Caruso asked.

“Huh?”

Dominic repeated the question.

“Sure, okay.” Werner’s expression said,
What’s the punch line?

“Tonight, at Tysons Corner. Upper-level parking area, say at nine-fifteen. Come alone. I know you’ll have people close by, but not close enough to see the transfer. I’ll personally hand him over to you.”

“You’re serious. You have him?”

“Yep.”

“How the hell did that happen?”

“Don’t ask, don’t tell. We’ve got him and you can have him. Just leave us out of it.”

“That’d be tough.”

“But not impossible.” Dominic smiled.

“No, not impossible.”

“Anonymous tip, unexpected break—whatever.”

“Right, right ... I have to talk this one over with the director.”

“I understand that.”

“Stay by your phone. I’ll be in touch.”

A
s everyone knew it would, the call came quickly—within ninety minutes, in fact—and the time and place of the meeting was confirmed. Eight-thirty came soon enough, and then it was time to get ready. Dominic and Clark walked out to the workshop to find Pasternak giving the Emir a once-over under the watchful eye and ready Glock of Domingo Chavez.

“He good to go, Doc?” Dominic Caruso asked.

“Yes. Careful with the leg, though.”

“Anything you say.”

Clark and Dominic stood Yasin up, and Dominic took the flex-cuffs from his back pocket and attached them to his wrists. Next, Dominic took out an Ace bandage, which he wrapped around Saif’s head half a dozen times. It would make a good blindfold. With that done, Clark grabbed him by the arm and walked him to the door, then across the backyard and through the back door to the garage. Hendley, Rounds, Granger, and Jack were standing beside the Suburban. They remained silent as Dominic opened the Suburban’s rear passenger door and helped Yasin inside. Clark went around to the other side and slid in beside him. Dominic got in front and started up. The drive would be down U.S. 29 to the D.C. Beltway, and then west into northern Virginia. Dominic stayed right on the posted speed limit, which was unusual for him. The addition of an FBI ID in his wallet usually absolved him of all speed limits in America, but this evening he’d play everything strictly by the rules. Across the American Legion Bridge into Virginia, which turned into a sweeping left uphill turn. Another twenty minutes and Dominic took the right-hand exit to Tysons Corner. Traffic picked up, but mostly away from the shopping center. It was 9:25 now. He took the ramp to the upper level on the south side of the shopping center.

There,
Dominic thought. An obvious Bureau car, a new Ford Crown Victoria with an extra radio antenna. He pulled to within thirty feet of it and just sat still. The Ford’s driver-side front door opened. It was Gus Werner, dressed in his usual go-to-work suit. Dominic got out to join him.

“Got him?” Werner asked.

“Yes, sir,” Dominic answered. “He looks a little different now. Bleached his skin some. Using this”—Dom handed over the half-used tube of Benoquin that he’d taken from the Las Vegas house—“and he’s had some work done on his face, in Switzerland, he told us. I’ll get him.”

Dominic walked back to the Suburban, opened the rear door, helped Yasin down, then slammed the door shut and walked him toward Werner.

“He’ll need some medical attention. Bullet injury to his thigh. It’s been looked at, but he might need a little more attention. Aside from that, he’s a hundred percent healthy. Hasn’t eaten very much. Might be hungry. Taking him to D.C. Field Division?”

“Yep.”

“Well, sir, he’s all yours now.”

“Dominic, someday I want to hear all of this story.”

“Maybe someday, sir, but not tonight.”

“Understood.”

“One thing: Ask him about the Heartland Attacks first. Ask him about his sleepers.”

“Why?”

“He’s trying a little sleight of hand. It’d be best if nobody runs with it.”

“Okay.” Then Werner’s voiced turned formal. “Saif Yasin, you are under arrest. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say will be taken down and can be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to have an attorney present. Do you understand what I just told you?” Werner asked, taking the man’s arm.

The Emir didn’t say a word.

Werner looked to Dominic. “He understand English?”

Dominic grinned. “Oh, yeah. Believe me, he knows exactly what’s happening.”

T
HOUGH JACK RYAN SR.’S Secret Service detail obviated any worries about unauthorized photographs being taken, most of the members of The Campus—Gerry Hendley, Tom Davis, Jerry Rounds, Rick Bell, Pete Alexander, Sam Granger, and Gavin Biery—had arrived several minutes early in three separate cars. Chavez and Clark came in a fourth vehicle with the recently retired and newly hired Campus member Sam Driscoll, who’d been spending half his time at The Campus bringing himself up to speed and the other half hunting for town houses and rehabbing at Johns Hopkins. Though he’d never met the fallen Caruso brother, Driscoll was a soldier to the core, and blood relation or not, known or not, a comrade in arms was a brother.

“Here they come,” Chavez murmured to the group and nodded down the tree-lined drive.

Per Marine Corps standards, Brian’s immediate family, escorted by Dominic, arrived in the lead limousine and stopped behind the hearse, where an eight-man escort platoon of Marine Corps pallbearers stood at attention, eyes forward and faces expressionless. Moments later the second limousine, carrying the Ryan clan, appeared and glided to a stop. At a nod from Special Agent Andrea Price-O’Day, rear doors on both limousines were opened, and the attendees emerged.

At the grave, Gerry Hendley and John Clark stood beside each other and watched as the members of the escort platoon stoically and smoothly slid the flag-draped coffin from the hearse and then fell into position behind the chaplain for the march across the lush lawn.

“Starting to sink in,” the head of The Campus murmured.

“Yeah,” Clark agreed. Six days had passed since Yucca, four since Brian’s body had returned home from Tripoli. Only now had any of them had time to absorb everything that had transpired. For the country, The Campus had scored a big win, but it had come at a big price.

The rain that had been falling most of the morning had cleared away an hour earlier; the rows of stark-white headstones seemed almost luminous in the midday sun. Paralleling the pallbearers’ course to the grave, a Marine band contingent marched in lockstep while playing a somber drum cadence.

The casket reached the foot of the grave, and the family members took their positions. The escort commander softly barked, “Order ...
arms
...” then “Parade ...
rest
.”

Per Dominic’s request, the chaplain kept the ceremony short.

“Escort ... ten-
hut.
Escort ... present
arms
.”

Then came the Marine Hymn and the gun salute, the Firing Party going through its crisp, almost robotic movements until the last shot echoed through the grounds. As it faded away, a lone bugler played taps as Brian’s flag was carefully folded and then presented to the Carusos. The Marine band played the Navy Hymn, “Eternal Father, Strong to Save.”

And it was over.

 

 

 

T
he next morning, Monday, The Campus resumed business, but the mood was predictably subdued. In the days leading up to Brian’s funeral, each of them had, of course, written and submitted his own after-action report, but this would be the first time the members of the now dismantled Kingfisher Group would meet for a postmortem. Faces were grim as everyone filed into the conference room. By unspoken agreement, a single chair at the table was left open for Brian.

The answer to Jack’s big “Why?” question had taken all of them by surprise. The Emir did, in fact, have larger aspirations for Lotus. The Heartland Attacks and the aborted
Losan
incident had been designed as jabs, the Yucca Mountain detonation as the uppercut that would awaken the sleeping giant. With an inept and reactionary Edward Kealty at the country’s helm, the FBI and CIA would in due course unravel the identities of those responsible for the attacks, only to find carefully constructed and fully backstopped legends that would eventually lead directly to the doorstep of Pakistan’s Directorate for Inter-Services Intelligence and radicalized elements of the Pakistan Army General Staff, both long suspected to be less-than-enthusiastic supporters of the war on terror.

Where the United States rightly invaded Afghanistan following 9/11, she would again react swiftly and overtly, expanding military operations east across the Safed Koh and Hindu Kush mountains. The inevitable destabilization of Pakistan, already a near-failed state, would, according to the Emir, create a power vacuum into which the Umayyad Revolutionary Council would step and take control of Pakistan’s substantial nuclear arsenal.

“It’s plausible,” Jerry Rounds said. “Worst case, the plan succeeds; best case, we have to go into the area big, maybe quadruple our current presence.”

“And stay there for a couple decades,” Clark added.

“If we thought Iraq was a recruiting poster for militants ...” Chavez observed.

“A win-win for the Emir and the URC,” Jack added.

“I told Werner to dig into the legends first. He’ll figure it out,” Dominic Caruso said. “The question is, was this the only trick the bastard had up his sleeve?”

As if on cue, the phone beside Hendley’s elbow buzzed. He picked it up, listened, then said, “Send her up.” He hung up and said to the group, “Maybe one less question that needs answering.”