Takedown (17 page)

C
aptain Bill Forrester’s small English Tudor was on a quiet street, in an equally quiet neighborhood in North Arlington, Virginia. Everything about it suggested it was inhabited by a normal, unassuming citizen—right down to the green-gray Subaru Outback parked in the driveway. What gave him away as something more were the Marine Corps and POW flags hanging from a pole above the front door.

Parking his car in the street and walking up the flagstone pathway, Gary Lawlor hoped the Subaru meant that somebody was home. He rang the doorbell and waited.

Moments later a solidly built man in his mid-fifties with salt-and-pepper hair cut high and tight, answered the door and said, “Can I help you?”

Gary raised his ID and said, “Captain Forrester?”

“Yes?” replied the marine.

“I’m Agent Lawlor from the Department of Homeland Security. I’m investigating the terrorist attacks of this afternoon and I need to ask you a few questions.”

“Why would you want to talk to me?”

“May I come inside, please?”

Forrester opened the screen door and showed Lawlor inside to a bland kitchen with cheap cabinets and yellow wallpaper. He pointed to a table with a view of the backyard and told his visitor to have a seat. “Can I get you something to drink?” he asked.

“I’ll take a beer if you’ve got it,” replied Gary. “It’s been a long day.”

Forrester didn’t know what to make of a Federal agent having a beer on company time, but something told him this DHS operative was not all he seemed to be. “You want a glass?” he asked as he withdrew two beers from the fridge.

“Please.”

Forrester poured the beers, handed one to Lawlor, and said, “What can I do for the Department of Homeland Security?”

Gary slid the printouts of three service photos Olson had e-mailed him across the table. “Do you recognize these men?”

The captain studied the photographs for a moment, slid them back across the table, and said, “No, I don’t.”

“If you need a little more time, that’s okay.”

“I’m pretty good with faces, Agent Lawlor. If I say I don’t recognize someone, I don’t recognize them.”

“From your glowing assessments, I would have thought these marines unforgettable.”

The man was toying with him, and Forrester didn’t like it. “What do you want?”

Removing the rest of the photos and sliding them across the table, Lawlor replied, “I want to talk about the recruiting operation you’ve been running out of the Marine Security Battalion.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I’ve read assessment reports for each of the marines in those pictures and they were all written by you.”

Forrester took a long swallow of beer, using the time to carefully craft his response. As he set the glass down on the table he looked at Lawlor and said, “I assess hundreds of marines every year. So what?”

“Not like these. These marines were exceptional, and eighteen months ago the ones you gave the highest marks to dropped off the grid.”

The captain rolled the base of his glass on the tabletop and fixed his guest with a steady gaze. “You’re talking to the wrong guy.”

“Why? Because you
really
don’t know what I’m talking about or you were just following orders? Captain Forrester, I don’t have a lot of time, so I’m going to cut to the chase. Of those marines, the first three I showed you are dead. They were killed today, we think by the same group responsible for blowing up the bridges and tunnels in New York, and something tells me that more marines are going to die very soon if you don’t help me out.”

S
atisfied?” asked Mike Jaffe as he turned off the monitor.

Brad Harper was stunned. “So those were female DIA operatives dressed to look like his kids?”

“Why do you think the camera never made it into the bathroom until their heads were already bent over the edge of the tub?”

“Why didn’t you just tell me?”

“Because you wouldn’t have given it the same reaction,” replied Jaffe. “It was perfect. Worthy of an Academy Award.”

“But I wasn’t acting.”

“I know. That’s why it was so perfect. Mohammed would have smelled the good cop/bad cop routine a mile away. Right now he thinks you’re terrified of my methods. If he thinks you believe I’m unstable and will stop at nothing, then he’s going to start believing it too.”

Harper didn’t like being used.

“So are we good here?” asked Jaffe in response to the marine’s silence.

Harper wasn’t quite sure how to respond to that.

“Are we good?” repeated Jaffe, slowly and deliberately.

The subtext was obvious. Jaffe wanted to know if Harper was going to continue to play ball, or if he had some sort of a problem that needed to be addressed. Harper had some serious doubts as to how Jaffe might handle any dissension. After all, the man had pointed a loaded pistol at his head, point-blank.

As long as the kids were out of the picture and no longer potential casualties, he figured he could go along with almost anything else Jaffe had up his sleeve. Harper nodded his head and said, “Yeah, we’re good.”

“Excellent. I’ve got three large rolls of Visqueen in the office at the end of the hall. I want you to go get them. It’s going to get pretty bloody in there.”

“Excuse me?” replied the young marine.

“Visqueen,”
repeated Jaffe. “Rolls of plastic sheeting.”

“I know what Visqueen is. What are we going to need it for?”

“I just told you. Right after you told me we were good. Did I misunderstand something?”

“No,” said Harper.

“No, sir,” corrected Jaffe.

Harper wanted to deck this deranged piece of shit, but he choked the impulse back and responded, “No,
sir.
”

“Good, because I’d hate to think you were going soft on me, Harper. I asked for marines on this assignment because marines are tough. Marines have got guts! And we’re gonna need all the guts we have to face down these two shitbags in the other room.”

“I understand,” said Harper, “but plastic sheeting? Are we really going to need it?”

“It’s not for us. It’s for the two foreign intelligence agents who are assisting us. They requested it.”

“Rashid and Hassan? What are they going to do with it?”

“They’re probably going to use it to keep blood off the walls and off the carpeting.”

Harper had figured things were going to really get ugly at some point, but the ugly he had anticipated was from psychological stress applied to their captives. They were in New York City, for Christ’s sake, not some third-world torture chamber.

Jaffe could read the young marine’s mind just by looking at him. “What’d you think this was going to be, son? We call them a few names, withhold everything but high-sugar foods, keep them up for days on end until they eventually crack, tell us what we want to know and then we go home to sleep in our warm beds with crystal clear consciences? Is that how you saw it going down? Because if you did, you’re not the man—wait, scratch that—you’re not the marine I thought you were.”

“Sir, I respect your command, but I’m going to ask you not to impugn my integrity as a United States marine.”

“Fuck that,” said Jaffe, getting into the taller man’s face. “Duty, honor, courage. Fuck all of that. That’s why guys like Humpty and Dumpty in the other room are beating us in the war on terror.”

The man was nuts. Harper was sure of it. And because he was nuts, Harper also knew that he couldn’t be reasoned with.

“You don’t believe me?” said Jaffe.

“No, sir. I believe whatever you say,” replied Harper.

“Bullshit, marine. It’s written all over your face. You think I’m a few cans shy of a six-pack, don’t you?”

“No, sir I didn’t say—”

“Quit lying to me, son. I can smell it from a mile away. You think I’m nuts? That’s fine by me. I probably am to have taken this job and stayed with it as long as I have, but I’ll tell you one thing. If we don’t start executing this war on terror in the
correct
fashion, we’re going to be overrun.

“We’re fighting for our civilization’s very survival here. They might not talk about it that way in the newspapers or on the evening news, but that is exactly what’s happening. Your country is depending on you. It’s depending on
us.
You and me. And that’s why what we’re doing here matters. It matters big-time. Because if we don’t stop these guys from going nuclear, thousands if not hundreds of thousands—maybe millions of innocent people are going to die. So keep that in mind the next time you want to question how I’m running this interrogation. Are we clear?”

“Yes, sir,” replied Harper flatly.

“Good. Now go get the Visqueen.”

I
know you’re distraught over Amanda’s surgery, but you can’t be serious. Tell me you’re not serious,” pleaded Charles Anderson.

“I couldn’t be more so, Chuck,” replied the president.

The chief of staff threw his hands up in defeat. “Of course you are! You’ve declared war on Islam, and then you fired the Secretary of Homeland Security. A trip to New York with the terrorists still at large would be the icing on the cake. It’ll be a public relations trifecta. Should I get Geoff in here to draft a release?”

“First of all, I didn’t declare war on Islam. We’ve already been through that. Secondly, I didn’t fire Driehaus;he resigned.”

“No, you didn’t fire him, but you didn’t prevent him from resigning either.”

“Semantics. What difference does it make?”

“It makes a lot of difference to you, to this presidency. I’d also make the case that to have him step down in the middle of all this erodes public confidence in our government.”

“That certainly wasn’t the case when the FEMA director bowed out in the aftermath of Katrina.”

“The key word there, Mr. President, is
aftermath.
Besides, the FEMA chief was inept and everyone knew it. I think letting Driehaus go in the middle of a horrific national crisis is a very bad idea.”

“The hell it is, Chuck. DHS isn’t working, and we all know it. I’m not going to let Alan Driehaus bully this office. He calls himself a patriot? Well, let me tell you something. A patriot doesn’t pull petty political gamesmanship in the middle of a crisis. You put your personal problems aside and you put the welfare of your country above all else. He couldn’t do that, so he’s out.”

Anderson thought about it. “Maybe there is a way we can use his resignation to our advantage. Anyone with half a brain will read between the lines and believe he resigned because he mishandled the terrorist threat. That could work for us.”

“No way,” said Rutledge. “We’re not going to throw Driehaus to the wolves just to divert attention away from what happened.”

“Why not? You think the American people wanted accountability after 9/11? They’re going to be packing the streets demanding a lot more than accountability this time. They’re going to want blood, and plenty of it.”

“And why shouldn’t they? Their government has failed to protect them, again.”

“So why shouldn’t Driehaus be the first one to the guillotine? With each one we throw them, the bloodlust will ebb.”

“Or it’ll surge. Blood is a funny thing, Chuck—especially in politics. Once people get a taste of it, they often want more and more and more. So we’re not throwing anyone under the bus yet. I’m going to personally call for full and open hearings when the dust has settled. I want total transparency. The American people are going to agree to nothing less. It’s the only thing that is going to help restore the sacred trust because I’ll tell you what, today that trust has been utterly shattered. Now let’s get working on my visit to New York. I want us to be under way ASAP.”

“With all due respect, sir—”

“She’s my daughter, for Christ’s sake, Chuck. This is what fathers do.”

“Fathers maybe, but not presidents, sir.”

Rutledge wasn’t going to be swayed. “ASAP.”

“Fine,” said Anderson, the resignation in his voice thick with sarcasm. “Should we use
Air Force One
or do you want me to see if the tooth fairy is flying up that way? I think we may actually have her cell phone number.”

“Watch it, Chuck. Not only does my daughter need me, the American people need to see their president in New York City.”

“I’m sorry, sir. I agree with you, but all of this should and will be put together in due time. Right now we can’t even get the National Guard into Manhattan. The terrorists have the entire island locked down, including the air space. How are we supposed to accomplish what even our military can’t do at this point?”

“That’s not my problem. It’s yours. Talk to the Secret Service.”

“I don’t need to talk to the Secret Service. I already know what they’ll say. In fact, wait a second.” Opening the door, Anderson stuck his head into the hall and said, “Carolyn, can you come here a moment, please?”

“Yes, sir, Mr. Anderson. What do you need?” replied the head of Jack Rutledge’s protective detail as she stepped into the doorway.

“The president wants to go to New York City,” stated the chief of staff. “Manhattan, to be precise.”

“Of course. We’re already starting to plan the logistics.”

“I don’t think you understand. The president wants to go now. Tonight.”

Looking up, Secret Service Agent Carolyn Leonard saw the president’s face and realized he was serious. “I’m sorry, sir, but that’s not possible. Not just yet at least.”

“Why not?” demanded Rutledge.

“It’s a war zone. The fact that the terrorists have snipers with high-powered rifles
and
RPGs makes it an absolute no-go.”

“What do you want me to do, Carolyn? Sign a release absolving the Secret Service of any and all responsibility should something happen to me?”

“Of course not, sir. I just want you to understand that there’s no way we can guarantee your safety at this point. You’d make too attractive a target, and not only to the terrorists.”

“Are you suggesting there are Americans who would want to harm me?”

“I can’t say for sure, sir. All I know is that the situation on the ground is starting to heat up a bit.”

“Heat up how?” asked the president.

“There are reports that scattered looting and mob violence against immigrants and Arab-Americans has begun.”

Rutledge looked at his chief of staff.

“It’s in the next briefing. I didn’t think you’d want me bring you updates every three minutes. We want to nail down whether these are isolated incidents or if we’re seeing some sort of groundswell,” said Anderson.

Rutledge was not happy with that answer. “All the more reason I should make a direct appeal to the people of New York from New York.”

“Sir,” said Leonard as she tried to suggest a compromise, “we could arrange for you to be someplace, maybe upstate—maybe in the capital—and then take you in to Manhattan once things cool down.”

“Once things
cool down?
When’s that? A week from now? A month?”

Leonard understood the president’s anger. Everyone was angry right now. The hard thing was directing that anger in the appropriate direction. She knew the president didn’t mean to take it out on her, and she was enough of a professional to let it roll off her back. What she needed to do was to persuade him against making the trip—at least for the time being. “Sir, my job is to advise you of the risks and what course of action the Secret Service feels is best to assure your safety and well-being.”

“And if it were up to you, I’d be locked in a bunker someplace right now.”

“Yes, sir.”

“But it’s not up to you. It’s up to me.”

“That’s correct, sir.”

“Carolyn, my daughter is there.”

“I know, sir, but how do you think it would look to the people of New York if the president could get in to see his daughter when even the National Guard hadn’t been able to make it in yet to help assure order? It might not look like you were truly there for the people of New York City.”

She had a point, and Rutledge knew it. Frustrated, he quietly pounded his fist on top of his desk and then nodded his head. “You’re right.”

“Thank you, Carolyn,” said the chief of staff as he showed her back into the hallway.

Closing the door, Anderson looked at the president and said, “If you want another opinion, I’ll get General Currutt in here and let him give you the Joint Chiefs’ take on trying to get into New York at this point.”

The president sat down, exhausted, and replied, “That won’t be necessary. I’ll stay put. For now. But, Chuck?”

“Yes?” replied the chief of staff as he stopped, his hand on the door-knob.

“I want results, and I want them soon, or I am going to New York, even if I have to pilot my own plane to get there.”