Zero Separation (37 page)

Donovan looked from Strauss's body, then up at his wife, profoundly sorry he hadn't been able to pull the trigger and that Lauren had been forced to finish the job. He wanted to tell her—apologize.

“How did you know where I—” Donovan's mouth felt dry, he was cold, and wanted to close his eyes.

“Don't talk.” Lauren held him tightly as she stroked his face.

Moments later the night air was filled with the sounds of sirens. Donovan heard the beating rotor of an approaching helicopter. It was coming fast, and within minutes he and Lauren were bathed in a harsh white light from the hovering chopper. Soldiers secured the scene and EMT personnel forced Lauren to move away. Donovan tried to reach for her, but he felt his clothes being cut apart and bandages pressed over his wounds. IVs were inserted and he felt a stretcher slide underneath him. His eyes were closed, but he could feel the paramedics lift him up and hurry across the open field toward the waiting helicopter. He heard his wife ask them how long it would take to fly to Walter Reed. He heard doors slide shut and rotors begin to accelerate, and then there was nothing.

“Dr. McKenna, would you please answer the question?”

Lauren looked across the table at high-level members of the FBI and three Department of Justice lawyers. Everyone was button-down proper except her—she was still wearing clothes stained with her husband's blood. Next to her sat Calvin and two DIA lawyers. The meeting was taking place in a conference room at Walter Reed Hospital with the promise that she'd be excused when her husband was moved from recovery and settled into his own room.

The moment they'd landed, he'd been whisked into the operating room and had endured four and a half hours of surgery. She'd seen him briefly afterward as the doctor met with her and explained what had been done. The sliced artery in his wrist had been repaired. The blade hadn't gone very deep, so the damage was mainly to the artery and not to major nerves and tendons. His leg was sutured and would heal fine. The gunshot wound to his shoulder had nicked his clavicle and they'd had to find and remove all of the bone fragments. The wound to his hand was trickier, but the specialist they'd brought in had felt as if Donovan would recover full use of his hand and fingers, though he would need extensive physical therapy to regain strength and motor skills. He was being administered massive doses of intravenous antibiotics to combat the anthrax exposure, along with an experimental treatment that promised to reverse any footholds the bacteria had already gained. The doctor had warned her that they'd done everything that could be done for now. If they stopped the spread of the anthrax, Donovan would survive, though a full recovery from all of his injuries would probably take months.

“Dr. McKenna, again, would you please answer the question?”

Lauren looked at the man who'd spoken. FBI Deputy Director Norman Graham was a thickset man with deep-set eyes and no neck. Lauren thought he had the smallest hands she'd ever seen on an adult.

“Yes, I initiated a phone call to Mr. Aaron Keller that allowed me access to Liberty Airlines Operations.”

“How long have you been working for Mossad?”

“I don't work for any foreign intelligence service.”

“How long have you known Aaron Keller?”

“Less than twenty-four hours.”

“Why did you call him?”

“He seemed motivated to help.”

“Which is why you hung up on General Porter?”

“Are we here to discuss my phone manners?”

“You elected to seek help from a Mossad agent rather than a member of the Joint Chiefs? A man, I might add, who convinced the president to issue you and your friends complete immunity in this matter?”

“I guess he didn't have a problem with my phone manners—or my tactics. I believe the president's intention was to spare my friends and me hours of needless interrogation.”

“Dr. McKenna, exactly when did you elect to join in the manhunt for Nathan Strauss?”

“When it became clear that my husband and Strauss were both missing from the crash site.”

“So, with all of your years of tactical field work, you felt compelled to give chase, unarmed, and alone, without asking for backup?”

“Norman,” Calvin said, quietly, “lose the sarcasm or this meeting is over.”

“I've got this,” Lauren said, putting her hand on Calvin's arm as she turned back to Graham. “Exactly where was I supposed to find this backup?”

Graham ignored Lauren's jab at the absence of agents on the
scene. “When did you ascertain that Nathan Strauss was alive, and that Leesburg airport was his destination?”

“Almost immediately,” Lauren replied. “It was an obvious deduction.”

“Yet you didn't tell anyone?”

“If my husband elected to give chase and not sound the alarm, there had to be a good reason. The only one I could think of was that Nathan Strauss must have a police radio or a scanner or some other way to monitor law enforcement transmissions. Once I figured that out, the rest was simple.”

“Do indulge us.”

“My husband should have sought immediate medical treatment. Instead, he made the decision to give chase. He must have thought he was in a unique position to stop the fugitive. He did this, I remind you, after he carried FBI Special Agent Montero to safety.”

“We're not questioning Mr. Nash's decisions or his bravery,” Graham replied. “Now, back to the Leesburg airport question. How did you know?”

“Immediately after the crash, I was on the west side of the buildings, as were most all of the fire rescue elements. I couldn't see what was happening on the east side—no one could. In fact it took considerable time for any official vehicles to reach the east side due to the way the Gulfstream came to rest between the two buildings. From the accounts of the first witness on the scene, I reconstructed the sequence of events following the crash. Because my husband had taken the time to carry Special Agent Montero clear of the burning plane, it seemed likely that Strauss had a head start. My husband wasn't actually following the suspect, but had instead figured out Strauss's likely destination. If he could do it, I surmised I should be able to as well.”

“The Leesburg airport.” Graham nodded as he said the words.

“We already knew that the Manassas airport was Strauss's initial choice. It only made sense that Strauss choose another satellite
airport as an alternate to try and make his escape via airplane. It was how he operated.”

“What did you discover upon your arrival at Leesburg?”

“I found a Dulles Airport Police car with the body of an officer locked inside. I also found a large section of fence that had been knocked down, presumably by a vehicle. It was then that I heard the sound of an airplane beginning to take off—followed by the sound of a crash.”

“What did you do then?”

“I drove through the hole in the fence and headed for the runway.”

“Dr. McKenna,” Graham held up his stubby hands as if Lauren had missed the obvious, “I'm deeply troubled by the fact that at no time did you attempt to contact the FBI. With your knowledge of government protocols, you know that the FBI is the lead agency for domestic terrorism.”

Lauren stared directly at Graham. “Let me make this a little clearer for you. My cell phone battery died from talking with a great number of people. By the time I arrived at the Leesburg airport, there were no FBI agents within earshot—so, no, I did not ask for your assistance. I would have liked that option, but at that point, I believe your nearest agent was either at the Dulles or Manassas airport, not exactly where I needed them.”

Everyone in the room glanced at Graham to gauge his response at her caustic response.

“There was a radio in the SUV you were driving,” Graham shot back.

“I believe I've stated my concerns about radio traffic and the possibility of Strauss being able to monitor them,” Lauren said. “May I continue?”

“Please do,” Graham replied.

“On the runway I came upon the debris from a crashed airplane. In the headlights, I found a destroyed Cessna and in the distance was a damaged vehicle. It was then that I saw my husband.”

“Go on.” Graham said.

“I was worried about the risk of fire from the Cessna, so I parked my vehicle about fifty yards or so and ran to him. I was able to reach him as he collapsed from his injuries.”

“Gentleman,” Calvin interrupted, “we're all aware of the physical damage suffered by Mr. Nash. I suggest for Dr. McKenna's sake we skip these details and try and wrap this up.”

“There's a process involved here,” Graham said to Calvin. “We'll stay the course. Dr. McKenna, what was your husband doing just before he collapsed?”

“He was pointing a gun at Nathan Strauss.”

“Do you feel it was your husband's intention to fire the weapon, or had he decided that apprehending Nathan Strauss would be more prudent?”

“I have no way to answer that question,” Lauren replied. “Though I sincerely doubt apprehension was on his mind. When I reached him, he was close to bleeding to death. Taking prisoners would have been a bit problematic at that point. The last words my husband said to me were to warn me that Strauss had a knife and that there was a police radio in the wrecked Cessna. I could hear the transmissions, and I assumed my husband was trying to reach the radio and call for help.”

“So you made the decision to kill a man, even though his back was broken and he posed no real threat to you.”

“Strauss held a knife and my husband was dying from what looked like knife wounds. I'm not a medical doctor, but I say he was a serious threat.” Lauren felt her patience dwindle to nothing and her temper flared. “Let's get one thing straight here. The threat this man posed was monumental. I killed a man that over the course of three days had shot two of my friends, one fatally. He tried to blow me up, and then kidnapped my husband as well as an FBI agent. Let's not forget the deaths of all the people on the Pan Avia flight and of course the impending anthrax attack he was very close to completing. The man was nothing if not lethal.”

“The question on the table isn't whether Nathan Strauss was
a criminal. He clearly was. The bigger question is: did you kill him under orders from Aaron Keller?”

“That's the most absurd statement I've ever heard.” Calvin shot to his feet. “We're finished here!”

“Answer the question!” Graham fired back, his eyes fixed on Lauren. “The last thing the Israelis would have wanted was one of their own to be put on trial for terrorism.”

“A prisoner might have been a nice trophy for you, but don't blame that failure on me.” Lauren did her best to hold her anger in check. “I think the bigger question here is the fact that the FBI, how did you phrase it? The obvious lead agency in domestic terrorist matters did virtually nothing to prevent the largest threat this country has ever faced.”

“Dr. McKenna,” Graham hissed, “you're out of order.”

“You can go to hell!” Lauren snapped. “How dare you even insinuate that I murdered a man on orders from Aaron Keller or anyone else for that matter. I think you're scrambling to save your ass by pointing fingers at me. It won't work.”

“I think we should all take a break,” Calvin said.

“We're not taking a break until Deputy Director Graham apologizes for his implication.” Lauren's anger had boiled over. She stabbed her fingers into the table for emphasis. “You've got ten seconds, Mr. Graham. Then you can stop trying to figure out how to best spin this story. I'll do it for you. I'll walk out of here and call a press conference to explain how a Mossad agent, a civilian pilot, and a suburban mother did more to stop an anthrax attack on the nation's capital than the entire Federal Bureau of Investigation.”

The room went silent as Lauren and Graham glared at each other.

“Five seconds. And do I need to remind you that I have full immunity?”

Graham blinked and then cleared his throat. “Dr. McKenna, I apologize if my comments seemed insensitive. My intent here is to examine all of the options that may or may not have come into play in this matter.”

Calvin took of his glasses and used them to gesture toward Graham. “Norman, one more remark like that and this meeting will be over. I've known Dr. McKenna since she was finishing her doctorate. I personally recruited her straight out of MIT. Her service and patriotism is beyond reproach.”

“Mr. Graham, I accept your apology. I can't tell you how much I wish someone else had been there to pull that trigger, or even be able to make the decision not to. I wish that an army of FBI agents had ridden in to my rescue, and that you could stand on a podium somewhere and decorate your own, but I was the only one there. I made the call and I killed Strauss. All I wanted was to get to that radio to try and save my husband's life.”

“Excuse me,” one of the FBI attorneys seated next to Graham said, “Dr. McKenna's comments a few minutes ago about putting the correct spin on today's events are interesting. I believe if we look hard enough, we might have a ready-made solution to this matter. Nathan Strauss died from multiple gunshot wounds fired from FBI Special Agent Veronica Montero's weapon. But the shots were fired by another federal agent, one who works for the Defense Intelligence Agency. In the interest of national security we would not name Dr. McKenna. We could then set plans into motion to present FBI Agent Montero as the undercover agent who was actually on board the Gulfstream. We could focus attention on the fact that even though she was injured, she made the difference in this matter. Then, of course, we'd try and not make any mention of Mossad, a civilian pilot, or a suburban mother.”

“That's an interesting angle. Dr. McKenna, would that be agreeable?” Graham asked. “And would you sign a nondisclosure statement to that effect?”