The following takes place between 1:00 AM and 2:00 AM
on the day of the State of the Union address.
1:00:00
The sound of the distant explosion reached Omar ibn-Hammad, driving on the interstate through Minneapolis. Judging from the interval between the flash and the sound of the explosion, it was just over a mile away . . . yes, that would be the warehouse. Omar raised his eyebrows and glanced at the radio clock. It was exactly 1:00.
He picked up the cell phone he had tossed on the passenger seat, and auto-dialed a number. The Frenchman answered on the second ring. "Oui?"
"How are things on your end?" Omar asked in French.
"Team One has been disposed of. I am unloading the vehicle now, and should have the device ready for your return. And you?"
"Our friends at the police department have found the control bomb."
"Already? It was supposed to have taken them at least three or four hours."
Omar grimaced. "The policeman they failed to kill must have gotten the plates of the getaway car. American police may be inept, but they are not completely unintelligent. In any case, we will have to accelerate our schedule accordingly. Does this present a problem?"
"Not for me."
"Good." He hung up without further words.
1:01:24
The world started to return around Alex Bowman – first the sensation of hard concrete under his body, followed by the sound of the MPD OIC calling his name, followed by a blurred image of the woman herself. He blinked, and winced in pain – his head must have knocked against something. He tried to focus on the female officer.
"Are you all right, sir?"
Alex grunted, tried to sit up. The cop lifted up his arm and slowly shouldered him to his feet. Alex tried to take in more of his surroundings. There was a large fire in the middle of the warehouse, where there used to be a cargo container. Several crates and one wall of the warehouse were also ablaze. Half a dozen cops were moving around the fire, talking into their radios, breathing through handkerchiefs, and generally acting as confused as he himself felt. He took a breath, and coughed – the air was filled with smoke.
"Sir," said the cop, "we've got to get you out of here. This building might go."
She tried to pull Alex away, but Alex stayed his ground and looked toward the fire for a moment longer. Then he saw him . . . Reggie Chaplain, unmoving, almost unrecognizable, being dragged away by a cop.
"No!" he cried, jerked his arm away from the officer, and tried to move toward him. He made only three steps before his legs gave away and he fell to the ground. The officer was at his side again at once, pulling him up and half-leading, half-dragging him to the exit.
"I'm sorry, sir," she said. "Your partner must have died instantly. One of my men is dead too." She gently sat him down on the hood of one of the squad cars. "Another is seriously hurt. You seem to be okay, aside from a few cuts and scrapes."
"Head hurts," he mumbled, trying to fight back tears. Reggie . . .
"The ambulance is on its way. They'll check you out, make sure you don't have a concussion."
Alex could only nod, bury his head in his hands, and wait for the bad dream to end.
1:02:31
"I don't know anything else, sir," said Sonja Gilmour over the general uproar in the CTU control room. "It had to be an explosion, and I can't raise Alex or Reggie. Jon, have you tried MPD?" Across the room, Jon Stolt waved absently as he talked into his own handset.
"Jesus," Arthur Frost moaned. "He should have waited. Those bastards, they should have waited for the bomb squad!"
"From Alex's description, it didn't look dangerous. I'm sure they would have waited if it was." She bit on a fingernail. "I'm sure they're okay. I mean, they have to be okay . . ." She looked up at Frost, almost pleadingly.
Jon jogged over to them. "It was an explosion," he said without preamble. "One of our guys is dead – it sounded like Reggie. No mention of Alex."
Frost sighed and closed his eyes for a brief moment.
"Jon," he said at length, "I want you to go down there. Check on Alex, and confirm the situation. I want to be sure before I call Sondra and tell her that her husband is dead."
"I'll go," said Sonja. "Jon was working on an important thread, and we don't want to lose it, even with this."
"Fine. Ben!" He called to another agent standing nearby. Ben Hanson, a short man in his early forties, moved to join them. "Go with Gilmour. I want to hear back from you in no more than half an hour. And under no circumstances are you to put yourself at risk. One loss today is one too many."
"Yes, sir." Sonja grabbed her coat and led Hanson out of the building.
1:04:16
All of the police officers breathed a sign of relief when the head of the decontamination unit nodded in satisfaction and pulled off his air mask. "Folks," he said loudly, "it's all clear. There's nothing dangerous in the air here. You can go about your work."
There was a happy and relieved muttering as the officers went back to their tasks, mostly in and around the white van. Ted Garfield simply stood there for a long moment, staring at nothing. Two scares like this in less than an hour was more than any man should have to handle. He had known that being a cop was high-risk work, but this was the first time he had actually found himself in real danger. The most danger he had ever found himself in before this was four years ago, when he had drawn his pistol and fired a warning shot while chasing a trio of armed robbers down the street. Even then, his life was not in any real danger.
He simply stood there for a moment, glad to be alive. But then he remembered Bobby Simmons, and his heart sank.
"Everything okay?" The chief, speaking softly at his side. Ted forced a smile and nodded. "Now I mean it this time, Ted: go home, get some rest, and be with your daughter."
"Can't." Ted rubbed his eyes with his thumb and forefinger. "Have to go down to the CTU building for a debriefing."
"Oh, right, I forgot. Well, I'm sure if I talked to them—"
"No, that's okay, Chief. I want to get this over with." He smiled again, and it came more easily this time. "Thanks anyway."
The chief nodded curtly and slapped Ted on the shoulder. "Don't let them give you any bull down there."
"I won't. Say, Chief, can I borrow your phone for a couple minutes?"
"Surely." The chief pulled out his cell phone, handed it to Ted, and politely stepped out of earshot. Ted dialed a number and put the phone to his ear.
"Hello?" came a familiar voice after the third ring.
"Aunt Gracie, it's me," Ted said.
"Teddy! I was listening to the radio, and I heard about the shooting. Were you there? Are you all right?"
It's on the news already? At this hour? Ted shook his head. "I was there, Aunt Gracie, but I'm fine. Everything is okay over here."
"Those vile people!" hissed the voice of the usually pleasant Aunt Gracie. "They should be ashamed of themselves, killing a poor innocent man like that!"
"Yeah. Aunt Gracie, how's Shauna doing?"
"She's fine, she's sound asleep. Would you like me to wake her up?"
"No, no, that's okay." At least one of us will get some sleep tonight, he thought. "I was just checking. Listen, they're letting me off early tonight. I have to head somewhere for a while, then I should be home – hopefully not more than an hour."
"Okay. Are you sure everything's all right, dear?"
Ted bit his lip, thought of telling her about Simmons, decided against it. "Everything's fine here. I have to run now. You don't have to wait up for me."
"You take care of yourself, do you hear me?"
"I hear you, Aunt Gracie. Bye. Love you."
He hung up the phone and handed it back to the chief, nodding his thanks. "Any chance I can catch a ride to the CTU building?"
"Give me a few minutes here, I'll take you myself."
"Thanks." Ted turned back to look at the white van, and tried to sort out his thoughts.
1:07:44
A year ago, shortly after leaving CTU, Rick Gaiman swore that he would never again use a cell phone. He would, if necessary, be the last person on earth to not have one. Two months later, he resumed the service on his personal cell, and even used it once or twice a month. Now, ten minutes out of Breckenridge, he pulled it out and dialed a number from memory.
"Yo!" came a slightly crazed female voice.
"Jacqui, it's Rick."
The briefest of pauses, then: "Ricky? Hey, how the hell are you? I haven't heard from you in ages!"
Rick managed a grin. "I'm hanging in there. I didn't wake you up, did I?"
"Do I sound like you woke me up?" A high-pitched giggle. Rick rolled his eyes.
"Yeah, stupid question. Any chance you could help me out with something?"
"Whatcha need?"
"CTU called me in to help them with something—"
"CTU?" An exaggerated sigh. "Rick, I thought they were paying you to not work for them."
"Well, they happened to be rather persuasive in this case. What I need is for you to check the files of the FBI, CIA, DoD, and anyone else you can think of for known or suspected bio-terrorism. Then cross-check that list for links to Minneapolis and/or Minnesota."
"Bio-terrorists?" A long pause. "Something serious is up, isn't it?"
"'Fraid so."
"Why would any terrorist, bio or otherwise, have ties to Minneapolis?"
"I don't know – for all I know, none of them do. But I have to start somewhere, and there's not much I can do at the moment."
"Are you at CTU now?"
"Actually," he said with a slight grin, "I'm on my way to Fergus Falls, on my way to the Cities."
"I'm guessing you won't have time to stop by."
"Sorry."
"I'm used to it. Well, give me half an hour and I'll see what I can come up with."
"You're my hero, Jacqui."
"Yeah, I've heard that one before too. Rick . . ." Another long pause. "You have quite a ways to drive. Are you sure you're good for it?"
Rick's hand clenched tighter around the cell phone. "Jacqui, I'm fine. I've been fine for a while now."
"I wouldn't be your friend if I didn't ask."
"If you want to be my friend," he said icily, "then get me those names."
"Fine. Sorry."
She hung up.
1:10:02
The paramedic was examining Alex's head with a critical eye. "Doesn't look too serious," he said. "You might want to consider a few tests to make absolutely sure there's no concussion, but I won't worry right now. You're going to have a hell of a goose-egg, though."
"Yeah." Alex scratched at the sore spot at the back of his head. "What about this cut on my arm, will it need stitches?"
"Nah. It's not too deep, and the bleeding's already stopped. I'll bandage it up for you – just be sure to keep it dry for a few days."
"Right." He turned away from the sight of the paramedic tinkering with the gash in his right forearm, just in time to see a CTU car pull up to the curb at breakneck speed, its brakes squealing it to a stop less than an inch from the fire engine. Alex grinned – he didn't need to peer through the windshield to tell it was Sonja driving.
Sure enough, Sonja climbed out of the driver's seat. She immediately ran over to Alex, accompanied by Ben Hanson. "Boss!" she said, her arms open to hug him, and stopped herself short when she saw what the paramedic was doing.
"Yeah," said Alex, "I'm a bit fragile right now. I appreciate the thought, though." He laid a comforting hand on her shoulder for a moment, then reached over to shake Hanson's hand. "Hi, Ben."
"Hi, boss. Is it true about Chaplain?"
Alex nodded somberly. "He was right next to it when it . . ." He broke off. They all stood in mute sadness for what seemed like a long time.
"All done," said the paramedic, finishing the wrapping of Alex's arm. "Remember to keep it dry, and don't use the arm much for a while."
"Thanks," said Alex as the paramedic returned to the ambulance. He looked back at Sonja. "Well, I don't know about any biological release weapons, but we're dealing with something here."
Sonja looked even unhappier. "I'm sorry, boss; I should have caught it in time. I don't know why—"
"They wanted to surprise us. Remember your training? The main value in terrorism is its shock value on the targeted group or society, which means it's most useful when you don't see it coming. These guys are good, Sonja."
"Not good enough, though," said Hanson.
"Damned right. We're going to pull out everything we have, and with any luck at all, those sons of bitches won't see it coming either. Anything new at headquarters?"
"Nothing yet," said Sonja. She spent a few seconds telling him about Jon's idea of determining the resources necessary to make the "terror virus" and attempting to track them. Alex nodded. "It's worth a shot. Did Gaiman call?"
"We haven't heard from him."
"What about that police officer, the one who was there when the driver of the van was killed?"
"The scene has been cleared of biological contaminants," said Hanson, "so I assume he's on his way in."
"Good." Alex looked around. "I don't think there's much more we can do here, so let's head back and—"
"Agent Bowman!" Alex turned to see the officer in charge, the woman who had pulled him out of the warehouse before. She was approaching the CTU agents, holding out a small piece of white plastic. "We found this in the debris. Is it from your partner?"
He took it and examined it. It appeared to be half of a magnetic keycard – the other half was melted away. He turned it over in his hands. The words THIS SIDE UP were printed in small letters, and under them were part of a corporate logo. He squinted at it, trying to make it out, then showed the keycard to the other two. "Looks like the Northern House logo," said Hanson.
"A hotel room keycard?" Sonja looked from one man to the other.
"Must be, or an access card for the staff parts of the hotel. We'll check it out." Alex turned back to the MPD officer. "No, I don't think Agent Chaplain had this. Could it have been in the bomb itself?"
"Actually, sir, he did have it. It was lying right next to his hand."
Alex nodded. "He must have pulled it out of the auxiliary compartment. Okay, officer, we'll take care of this."
He hesitated, then extended his hand to her. "Thank you. For everything."
"That's my job," she replied, shaking it. "You take care of yourself, Agent Bowman."
1:14:53
Lorraine McDevitt was fifty-three years old, and didn't look a day over forty. She was tall and angular, with silver hair and piercing gray eyes. Married and divorced twice, she was the "wise learned one" of CTU Minneapolis – more so than Frost, to many people. And, like Alex, she was not a night person.
As she entered the CTU control room and saw the beehive of activity that it had become, however, the fatigue poisons in her body vanished without a second thought. A couple dozen agents were typing at their terminals, moving files from one end of the room to another, discussing their finds with one another, and generally acting exactly as they had been trained to act: like everyone's lives depended on their own actions.
She sighed. It was going to be a long day.
Across the room, Frost looked up, spotted her, and beckoned her over. She dropped her purse on a nearby empty chair – CTU was one of the few places in Minneapolis where you could leave your purse somewhere and expect it to still be there several hours later – and walked over to join them. "How's business?"
"Breathtaking," Frost said. "Are you up to speed?"
"I got the quick and dirty version when Sonja called. What am I doing?"
"An intact test tube from the first murder site arrived here a few minutes ago, and is waiting in your forensic lab. We need you to analyze the contents for biological activity."
"Killer bug, in other words."
"Thank you."
"You're welcome. But did you say the first murder site?" She raised her eyebrows. "Has there been another one?"
Frost looked between her and Jon, who was studying his terminal screen unhelpfully. "We'll tell you about it a bit later. I need you to focus on this at the moment."
Lorraine bent closer to Frost and lowered her voice. "You realize, don't you, that if there is something in that test tube, and you had it brought in here—"
"The first thing they did was double-seal it. You have your hot box, and unless you do something stupid there's no danger to CTU. How long will you need?"
She shook her head. "I don't know. Depends on how active the stuff might be. Anywhere from ten minutes to a few hours."
"We'll be waiting." His face softened slightly, and he managed a sincere smile. "Thanks for coming in, Lo. I'm glad to have you with us on this one."
"Thank Alex – it was his idea to wake me up." She turned and headed toward her laboratory before Frost could respond.
"I think we've got all the bases covered, sir," said Jon, glancing up from his terminal. "We have a full roster now, and we'll be ready for whatever they throw at us next. And hey—" he grinned "—it's been just over an hour since the call went out. If this were a drill, we would've passed with flying colors."
"If this were a drill. Right." Frost sat on the edge of Jon's desk, clicked his teeth for a moment, then looked at his watch. "Where the hell is Sonja?"
1:17:22
Sonja drove the car as Alex scratched at the soot covering the burned end of the keycard. She glanced at him sideways. "Wouldn't do any good," she said. "Hotel room keycards don't have room numbers printed on them."
Alex shrugged. "Something to do."
Hanson, from the back seat, piped up: "Boss, you're never happy unless your fingers are doing something."
"My fingers will tear you a new one if you don't shut up back there." He laughed as he said it – Hanson laughed with him. Alex only used his tough-guy attitude when he was joking. Sonja could tell, however, that the humor was forced. She gave him a longer glance, and saw that his hands were trembling as he tinkered with the keycard.
On the dashboard, Sonja's cell phone rang. She picked it up and answered. "Gilmour . . . Yeah, he's right here." She handed the phone to Alex. "It's Frost."
He took the phone. "Art."
"Alex! Are you okay? What happened?"
He gave Frost the short version of events.
"Chaplain?"
Alex closed his eyes for a brief moment. "He didn't make it, Art. I'm sorry. I should've—"
"Should have, would have, could have, none of it matters right now. We have to put it behind us for now, and grieve when we can." Pause. "He was a good man, and I know it wasn't your fault. Leave it at that for now."
"Yes, sir. Has that cop come in yet?"
"He just arrived. I've got him waiting for you in the conference room."
"It may take a little while. We're heading to the Northern House over on Fourth." He told Frost about the burned keycard.
"I can have someone interview him if you'd like."
"Fine, but don't let him go until I get there. I want to talk to him myself."
"You got it."
1:21:01
"Seal integrity confirmed," said Lorraine. "Here we go."
She reached into the glove box – a glass compartment with two gloves built into the surface, so that one could manipulate a totally self-contained environment – and gently handled the test tube within. It took her a moment to maneuver the tube into the right position to break the two seals, and then she opened the tube. The air inside the tube, and whatever it might have contained, was now released into the glove box.
She picked up the first of several instruments she had placed inside the glove box with the test tube – an all purpose sensor rod of her own devising. She stuck the pen-shaped sensor rod halfway inside the tube and depressed a small switch on the size. There was a pause of exactly four seconds, then a beep. She gently withdrew the rod, set it down, then removed one of her hands to type a command into her nearby computer. The screen flashed with information. She studied it.
"No radiation," she said to her assistant. "No detectable toxins. No corrosives. Looks like it's just room air."
"Not quite," said the assistant. "The nitrogen to oxygen ratio is slightly higher than normal."
"That's interesting," she said. "Nitrogen is an inert gas – if you want to preserve something for a long time, you stick it in an airtight container and pump it full of nitrogen."
"What would they have wanted to preserve?"
"I don't know. Possibly nothing – I was just brainstorming out loud." She reached back into the box and gently pulled the covers off of six Petri dishes lying in wait within. "If there is an Ebola-like virus in the glove box, we should expect positive results in dishes four and six within the next hour. These samples can detect just about any other biological activity we can think of – and some we can't."
"I'll set the scopes," said the assistant, and began positioning the suspended monitoring devices to watch each one of the Petri dishes. When there was a positive result in any of them, Lorraine's computer would notify her at once.
"Good," said Lorraine. "Now let's see what else this baby can tell us." She picked up another instrument and began the first of many tests on the tube itself.
1:25:35
The assistant manager of the Northern House, Downtown Minneapolis looked up as the trio of government agents walked into the lobby – he could tell that they were government at once from the way they carried themselves. Their postures were upright, their faces were purposeful, and they generally walked like they owned the place.
"Can I help you?" he asked.
The leader, a tall man with short brown hair, flashed his identification. "Alex Bowman, CTU. Is the manager available?"
"The manager is on vacation overseas at the moment," the assistant manager – his name card identified him as SEAN MORALES – said. "If I could be of any service—"
Alex held out the burned keycard. "This was pulled out of an explosion less than half an hour ago. Is there any way to tell which room it leads into?"
"Goodness!" Morales took the mangled card from Bowman. "I'm not sure if . . . well yes, it is a Northern House card, but are you sure it came from this hotel? So far as I know, all keycards are accounted for."
"It was the best place to start looking."
"I suppose." He peered at it more closely. "If we could extract the information on the magnetic strip, we might be able to tell which room it is, if enough of the data has been preserved."
"Can you do it, please?"
"No. We don't have the equipment to read the data off the card, only to program it. I don't know of any equipment that could extract the information from just a fragment of a card anyway."
Alex nodded, and made a mental note to have Jon or Rick try something with it later. "Mr. Morales, could we take a look at your hotel registry for this evening?"
Morales hesitated. "I'm sorry, but I don't think the manager would appreciate my showing you the registry without a warrant."
"With the evidence we currently have, we could get a warrant quite easily. Trouble is, it takes time – and we may not have the luxury of time."
"To put it another way," said Sonja, "we're going to end up looking at your registry anyway. You can only influence how much extra time the bad guys have before we do."
The assistant manager gulped and nodded. "Do you want a printout? That would take a few minutes."
"Fine – in the meantime, may we use the terminal?"
Morales acquiesced, and the trio of agents moved behind the counter. Sonja stepped up to the terminal and typed commands as Morales flipped on another terminal to initiate the registry printout. By the time the printer had started chattering away, Sonja had already pulled up a scrollable index of the names of the hotel guests. She found what she was looking for on the first page: "Al-Rahmad, Hassan. That's the driver of the white van. Room 307."
"Pull up the full entry, and copy down the information. Mr. Morales, we need to take a look at room 307."
"I'm sorry, sir, but I will need a warrant for that."
"According to Minnesota state law," said Hanson, "managers of hotels are allowed to permit themselves or anyone else access to a room rented out to a guest, with or without that guest's consent or knowledge. As the manager of this hotel is out of the country at the moment, you are the acting manager. This gives you the authority to—"
"Ben, Ben," interrupted Alex. "Mr. Morales is doing what any sensible mid-level employee would in unusual circumstances like these: trying to cover his own ass. It's a very sensible move."
"Yes, boss," said Hanson.
"Of course," continued Alex, "his ass would be more greatly covered if he fully cooperated with us. That way, if we failed to catch the bad guys in time, the federal government would have no reason to take action against the Northern House, action which would certainly result in fines and imprisonment for members of—"
"Okay, okay," said Morales, who liked to think himself a graceful loser. "Room 307, was it?"
1:29:41
". . . once again on the bottom of the hour. I'm Bob Elder for WSMN Radio news. In breaking news, we have had reports of two violent incidents in downtown Minneapolis within the last two hours. About thirty minutes ago a large explosion took place in the warehouse district, apparently in an abandoned building. We have no details yet on what caused the explosion, nor on whether there were any casualties. This follows on the heels of an apparent murder on Lyndale Avenue that took place shortly after midnight. We will, of course, keep you up-to-date on developments in these bizarre incidents.
"A major storm system has made its way through North Dakota over the evening, and is starting to head into Minnesota. There's a strong chance that the Twin Cities will catch a piece of this fast-moving storm, which could hit the area as early as the morning rush hour. Stay tuned to WSMN for further updates on this weather system . . ."
1:31:13
Alex swung the door to room 307 open slowly, cautiously. He expected darkness, but one of the bedside lights was turned on, providing sufficient illumination. The room appeared empty; the bed was freshly made, the little packages of soap were still in their wrappers, there was no luggage lying about. It did not look very used.
Sonja sniffed the air inside the room. "Smell that? It's a men's cologne . . . same kind my boyfriend uses, or very close."
"Nothing personal," said Hanson, "but your boyfriend doesn't have the best taste in cologne."
She made a face. "Tell me about it."
"Sonja, check the drawers and under the beds. Ben, the bathroom." He paced around the room slowly as the other two went about their searches. Morales stood politely just inside the doorway, trying to look more professional than nervous.
"The toilet hasn't even been flushed since this afternoon," Hanson piped up from inside the bathroom. "There's still cleaner in it."
Alex ran his finger over the room's single bed. There were creases and dents in the comforter. "Somebody sat, or lay, on this bed after it was made. Somebody obviously turned on the light." He turned to Morales. "You say that al-Rahmad has had this room since Saturday evening?"
"Yes, sir."
"He must have used it as little more than a base of operations," said Sonja as she peered into the bedside drawer. "A place to coordinate efforts, receive calls, maybe catch a nap when he needed to." She looked up. "Calls."
"Right. Mr. Morales, we need a list of all the calls made by al-Rahmad."
Morales nodded. "I'll get that for you now." He left the room.
"Bingo." Alex and Hanson, just emerging from the bathroom, looked at Sonja, who had pulled a pair of tweezers from her pocket and was extracting a piece of notepad paper from the small garbage can under the bedside drawer. Alex leaned in closer. On the paper was a list of numbers:
840
1631
1226
407
4149
32
2346
Beside each number was a check mark. "Mean anything to you?" asked Sonja.
Alex shook his head. "Passcodes? Phone numbers? No, couldn't be . . . addresses, maybe, but where are the street names? Ben?"
Hanson shook his head as he pulled a plastic bag out of a pack he had slung about his shoulder. "Beats me, boss." He held the bag open for Sonja to drop the note into. "If I were forced to guess, I'd say a cipher of some kind . . . but it's too short to have much content."
"Not a cipher," Sonja said, "but a straightforward code. One in which strings of a few characters can represent entire phrases or sentences – the Navy uses that principle in submarines, whose operational depths prevent transmitting or receiving more than a few dozen characters per minute. Without the code book, we'd never crack the message."
"We'll take it anyway," Alex decided. "Who knows what it is." He took the bagged piece of paper from Hanson and turned back to the door just in time to see Morales re-enter the room. "You got those phone records fast."
"There was nothing to get," Morales said. "The guest in this room did not make or receive a single phone call."
1:34:45
Jon realized he needed a break when he read the same sentence a half dozen times without any cognition. He rubbed his eyes, leaned back, stretched, and saw Frost emerge from his office. Frost moved very slowly to a nearby ceiling support and leaned against it, his hand pressed against his mouth as if he were trying not to vomit. His eyes were those of a man who had borne much, much more than his fair share of the burden.
To hell with protocol, Jon decided, stood, and walked over to meet him. Frost looked up at Jon's approached, but otherwise did not move. "You okay, sir?" Jon asked quietly.
Frost straightened up, and did a respectable job at regaining his composure. "I'm okay. I mean . . . I'll be okay." He paused. "I just got off with Sondra."
Jon nodded, and his stomach sank once more. He knew that he couldn't possibly imagine what it was like to be in Sondra Chaplain's position – attending a party with your devoted husband one moment, discovering that you've become a widow the next. At twenty-six years old, Jonathon Stolt liked to think he had a good imagination, and a good sense of empathy. His grandmother had always taught him to never judge a person until you've imagined walking a mile in her shoes. But now, he tried to imagine was Sondra was going through this very moment, and he couldn't.
"I'm sorry, sir," was all he could think to say – it came out as a hoarse whisper.
Frost faked a smile. "It's okay. It was my responsibility, and she would want to hear it from me anyway." He ran a hand through his graying hair. "What's the latest?"
"Forensics called a few minutes ago. They pulled the prints and dental records from al-Rahmad, and they're running through the computer now, trying to find his real identity. Everyone else is still plodding away."
"Lorraine?"
"Nothing yet."
"What about that cop, Garfield?"
"He's in conference room 2, being debriefed by Shirley. You said to keep him here until Alex gets back."
"Yeah."
1:36:58
Rick was about five miles out of Fergus Falls when his phone rang again. He answered it. "Jacqui?"
"Yeah, Rick, it's me. I got the information you needed, and I'm mostly done cross-checking it."
"Anything so far?"
"Nothing," came Jacqui's voice. "No bio-terrorism connections to Minneapolis or Minnesota at all. Closest match I found was a domestic nut, who ran out of Chicago a couple years ago. He thought that giving a bunch of abortion doctors the West Nile virus would be a really neat idea."
"Great. I don't think we're dealing with – Shit!"
He slammed on the brakes and swerved hard to the left. The road contained patches of ice, but there was enough traction that he was able to stop in time – the Nissan spun around 90 degrees and came to a stop perpendicular to the road, with a good seven feet to spare.
Rick spent a moment trying to catch his breath and thanking the gods that his father had taught him to emergency stop before he had even obtained his driving permit. Then he swiveled his head around to glare at the deer in the right hand lane, who stared back at him as if wondering what all the fuss was about.
"Rick?" inquired a tinny voice from the passenger side floor. "What's wrong? Are you all right?"
Moving slowly and deliberately, keeping his eyes on the offending woodland creature, Rich shifted into park, leaned down and retrieved his cell phone. "Fine," he said. "Sorry. There was a deer in the road – came right out of nowhere."
"You're not hurt, are you?"
"I'm fine," he said as the deer – amazingly enough, totally unaffected by the whole proceedings – sauntered its way off the road and back into the forest. "Just gave me a scare, that's all." He put the car back into gear, slowly maneuvered it back into his lane, and took off once more. "What were you saying, now? West Nile virus?"
"Yeah, the guy in Chicago. That's the closest bio-terrorism connection I could find to Minneapolis. I'll have the whole list cross-checked in another five or ten minutes."
"Fine."
"You want to tell me what this is all about now?"
"Like I said earlier, something came up in the Minneapolis branch, and I wanted to be prepared for when I got there."
"Why did they call you in?"
A wry grin crept across Rick's face. "Alex. The son of a bitch never let up on me. He's been keeping tabs on me ever since I left CTU, making sure I stay out of trouble."
"So why didn't you call CTU to get this information?"
"Because I'm no longer cleared to receive it from them."
"Ah." A brief, awkward pause. "Well, I think maybe this guy is doing the right thing, keeping tabs on you after what happened—"
"Don't go there," Rick said. "Please. Not tonight of all nights."
"Just promise me you're okay."
"I'm okay. I promise. Just call me if you get anything else, okay?"
"I will."
"Thanks, Jacqui." He hung up the phone, tossed it onto the passenger seat, and drove into Fergus Falls.
1:39:40
Omar ibn-Hammad pulled into the driveway of the two-story house in Monticello and parked the car. Monticello, Minnesota was the best of both worlds – small enough and remote enough for that rural feel, close enough to the big city to avoid rural insanity. A good forty minutes north of Minneapolis on I-94, it was much like Breckenridge in that it was asleep at this hour. The freeway gas station, half a mile away, was the nearest sign of life – all was quiet, all was peaceful.
Omar climbed out of the car, walked up the front walk and entered the house as though he owned the place. The lights were on inside, but nobody appeared to be home. Omar stomped his boots free of snow, shed his winter coat onto a nearby easy chair, and walked to the basement door. His hand had not even grazed the doorknob when he felt the barrel of a gun being pressed into the back of his skull.
"Your mother eats rotten potatoes for lunch," came a voice behind him in Arabic.
"At least I knew my mother," Omar replied in the same language, completing the password. He turned to face a grinning young man, who re-holstered his pistol. "Good reflexes, Abdul, but you must remember to keep it in English."
"Yes, I have forgotten. My apologizes, sir."
"Do not forget next time. Is all in readiness?"
"Very nearly, sir," Abdul said as he accompanied Omar down the stairs into the basement. "We did not anticipate the schedule being accelerated like this, but we're doing what we can. Perhaps another half-hour."
"Fine." Omar stopped at the foot of the stairs and glanced around. A couple dozen people had been cramped into the small basement for the last several hours, filling the air with the scent of human beings – some unwashed – in close proximity. They all wore black, and most had ski masks pulled up over their foreheads. They were engaged in various chores – assembling and loading weapons, programming laptop computers, conversing about their plans, and so on. Upon seeing Omar descend into the basement, they rose and stood in respectful attention. Omar appraised them, looking from one face to another in turn.
"I dislike speeches," he said, "so you will not receive one from me. As you already know, circumstances have forced us to accelerate our schedule, so if you have not already begun final preparations, begin them now. We leave in—" he glanced at his wristwatch "—forty minutes. Any questions?"
The room was silent. There were none.
"Good luck," he said. "And long live the Brotherhood."
The men nodded and chattered excitedly as they went back to work. Not the most disciplined bunch, Omar thought silently, but they know how to follow orders. So long as they continue to believe they are doing Allah's will, they will continue to do so. That is all that matters.
Omar made his way through the mass humanity to the far corner of a basement, partitioned off by curtains tacked to the ceiling. He slipped between two partitions, where he found a small, raven-haired woman, clad in a semi-transparent blouse and long jeans, sitting at a trio of computers. The computers were networked through a small satellite dish in the backyard, disguised as a commercial satellite TV receiver. The signal, like all of their cell phone signals, was scrambled so as be untraceable.
"You're still here?" Omar asked in surprise. "You were sitting here when I left."
"The computers have to be manned constantly from this point on," she said.
"We won't have the signal for another two hours."
She looked up, noticed Omar's eyes quickly divert their gaze from her breasts, and restrained a knowing grin. "You're paying me to be prepared," she said.
"And prepared you are," Omar said in approval. "Anything you need?"
She shook her head slowly.
"Then it seems we're ready to begin."
"It's a bit early," she said. Her voice was casual, but her eyes conveyed a mixture of questioning and reproof.
"Really," he said with a mischievous grin. "All this equipment, and you didn't have the foresight to pull up a weather report? A large snowstorm is coming in from the northwest, and will hit Minneapolis before sunrise. If we wait to make the call, the storm will be nearly upon us. In a way, their finding the warehouse bomb early was a blessing."
He took his cell phone out of his pocket, turned it on, and glanced at the woman. She checked something on one of her screens, and nodded. He dialed a number.
The line was answered on the first ring. "CTU Minneapolis," came the voice of the switchboard operator.
"2346 Victor Avenue," said Omar without preamble. "Serial number JS-0049163. You will take my second call in exactly seven minutes."
He hung up.
1:44:16
Sonja pulled into the parking spot in the CTU lot and turned off the car. "So where does that leave us?"
Alex had been lost in thought during the entire drive back to CTU. He remained silent for a few more seconds, then opened his door to climb out of the car. Sonja and Hanson followed suit.
"Let's look at what we know," said Alex. "Al-Rahmad picked up the cargo container in Duluth this afternoon and drove it into Minneapolis. Later he was killed by two assassins, who then drove their car to the warehouse where al-Rahamad dropped off the cargo container. Al-Rahmad's hotel room key was in the bomb, meaning that either he put it in there, or he gave it to someone else who then put it in there."
"You think al-Rahamad and the assassins were working together?" Hanson asked as they entered the building and made their way quickly through security.
"I don't know. What we do know is that, first, the assassins knew where the cargo container was, and probably what its significance was, and second, that they eventually wanted us to find it. Even if that cop hadn't gotten the license plate number, we would have found the car eventually. It was parked in a no-parking zone."
"Then why did they kill al-Rahmad?"
"I don't know, Ben – we don't have enough information to really know anything yet."
They walked into the main control room together, just as Arthur Frost was leaving his office. He spotted Alex at once and waved him over. Alex glanced back. "Ben, thanks for your help. I really appreciate it."
"Anytime, boss." Hanson and Sonja both removed their coats and headed back to their desks. Sonja turned back once, as if to say something to Alex, but he was already moving in Frost's direction.
"We got a call from our bomber," Frost said. "He's calling us back in six minutes."
"How do we know it was the bomber?" Alex asked, instantly alert.
"He gave the location and serial number of the warehouse bomb. They have the recording at the switchboard."
"I want to hear it."
He turned and led Frost out to a small room behind the main entrance corridor, where a telephone operator was sitting at a console. She looked up, clearly expecting them. "Play back the message," Frost ordered.
She typed a command into her computer. All recording of telephone communications at CTU was digital, performed by a Picosystem recording program – no tapes to rewind or fast-forward, no wearing out of magnetic tapes. A bit of fiddling with her computer, and the receptionist's voice came out of the speakers: "CTU Minneapolis."
It was followed by a coarse, sandpaper-like voice: "2346 Victor Avenue. Serial number JS-0049163. You will take my second call in exactly seven minutes." Then there was the sound of the line being broken, and nothing more.
"Call initiated at 1:44:02," the operator read off her screen, "and terminated at 1:44:16. No time to attempt a trace."
Frost turned to Alex. "Voice sound familiar at all?"
Alex shook his head. "We'll get Jon to do a voice-print analysis; maybe this guy's in our database. Art, is that cop here?"
"Yeah, he's waiting for you. But you have less than five minutes – I want you to sit in when he calls back."
"Fine." He turned to leave, then stopped, turned back to Frost. "Art . . . I'm so sorry about Reggie. He was—"
"He was doing his job," Frost said softly. "And he did it damned well."
"Yes, sir." Alex paused a moment longer, tried to think of something else to say, and came up empty. He turned and walked back through the control room. "Jon," he said as he passed Stolt's desk, "load up your voice-print analysis software. You'll need it in a bit." He walked away without observing Jon's reaction, toward the conference room. He opened the door, closed it behind him, and extended his hand to the policeman. "Officer Garfield," he said, "thank you for coming."
Ted Garfield stood and shook Alex's hand. "I was beginning to think you guys had forgotten about me."
Alex managed a smile as he sat opposite Ted. "We've been given a lot to think about during the last couple of hours. I'm obviously a bit rushed at the moment – I know you've already been debriefed, but I just need to ask you a few quick questions."
"Shoot."
"Okay. The two assassins, did you get a good look at their faces?"
"Yeah, and I'm going to be doing the sketch artist thing down at the precinct in the morning. I can do it now, if you'd like—"
"That's not necessary, sir. There was one male, one female, right?"
"Yes, sir."
"Did the man speak at all?"
"Boy, did he ever." Ted shuddered slightly at the memory.
"You remember what his voice sounded like?"
"Yes."
"Was it a rough voice, kind of coarse, low-pitched?"
Ted considered for a few seconds. "No," he said, "it was high-pitched, and very smooth – maybe a bit nasal."
"Not like this?" Alex asked in a fair imitation of the sandpaper-voiced caller.
Ted shook his head. "No, sir, not a bit like that."
"Okay. Did the victim and the killers exchange anything? One party give anything to the other, that you saw?"
"Aside from a lead sandwich, nothing."
"Did the victim look like he knew the killers? Was there recognition on his face?"
Ted considered once more. "No, I don't think he recognized them at all."
"What about the killers? Did they recognize the victim?"
"I'm not sure . . . they were too busy either laughing or running to really look at any one thing."
Alex nodded. "One last question, Officer. Are you sure that Mr. al-Rahmad was the target?"
Ted frowned. "What do you mean?"
"I mean, is it possible that the woman who shot Mr. al-Rahmad was really attempting to shoot you, and instead shot the victim?"
"You mean, by mistake?" Ted shook his head. "No way, man. It was a perfect aim, right through the heart."
"Right. I think that's all I have for you right now, Officer." He stood. "We'll be letting you go pretty soon, hopefully."
"Not a problem," Ted said to Alex's back – he was already walking out of the conference room and into Frost's office next door.
Frost looked up at Alex's entry. "Get anything useful out of him?"
"Maybe." Alex paced around the office. "Al-Rahmad was obviously not expecting to be shot to death on Lyndale Avenue, and I think we can assume that he didn't know the two killers. They knew him – he was definitely their target."
"And the bomb?"
"Must have been set up by al-Rahamad, and he must have put the hotel room card key in there himself. Or somebody he knew. Not the killers."
"But the killers knew where the container was, and probably knew that it was a bomb."
"That's what I was working out on the way back here. They were setting us up to find that bomb." He sat down opposite Frost and rubbed his chin. "Something doesn't add up, Art."
"You're telling me. The killers were keeping tabs on al-Rahmad, yes?"
"They must have been. Either they were trying to stop him for some reason, or . . ."
"Or they were working for the same people," said Frost. "First rule of assassination."
Alex nodded. "Kill the assassins. They had al-Rahmad plant the bomb for us to find, and then shut him up for good."
"What about the virus?"
"Did you get Lorraine working on it?"
"Yes, she's still working. So far as we can tell, though, this has nothing to do with a biological-release weapon."
"Nor is it just a case of one bomb in one warehouse. It can't be, Art. It has to be a prelude to something bigger – I think the man who called earlier proved that."
The phone on Frost's desk rang.
"Speak of the devil," said Frost wryly.
1:51:20
Omar covered the mouthpiece of his cell phone with one hand as he stuck his head out the curtains. "Everyone!" he shouted. "I need it quiet for a moment!"
The basement was instantly quiet.
Omar moved back into the curtained-off area just as the line was picked up. "CTU, Director Frost speaking," came the voice of a middle-aged man.
"You are recording this call?" Omar asked.
"This call is being monitored and recorded, yes," said Frost. "With whom am I speaking?"
"Irrelevant. Listen carefully. You have found the bomb on Victor Avenue, yes?"
"We did. One of our agents and a policeman were killed in the explosion."
"That bomb is, as you Americans are fond of saying, like a wet firecracker next to what is waiting for you. Six additional bombs in the city of Minneapolis, between thirty and sixty times as powerful as the one in the warehouse. All of them set to go off at exactly noon today, in ten hours and eight minutes."
"Where are these bombs located?"
"Another of your expressions: That would be telling. But you meet our demands, and you won't have to worry about the bombs."
There was a brief pause.
"It is the policy of the United States Government," said Frost, "that we do not, under any circumstances, negotiate with terrorists."
"That is perfect," said Omar, "since our demands are non-negotiable. Seven point five million dollars, in unmarked, non-sequential bills. Five million in fifties, the rest in twenties. In return, you will receive the locations of the bombs, and instructions for disarming them. Do you understand?"
"I understand what you're saying," said Frost, "but I repeat that we do not—"
"Mr. Frost," said Omar, "the instructions for disarmament are somewhat complicated, so the less time you spend chattering about government policy, the more time you will have for a – what is the phrase? – safety margin. I will call you again in exactly three hours with the drop instructions."
He hung up without further words. The small, raven-haired girl smiled up at him. "The scrambler remained intact," she said sweetly. "No possibility of a trace."
"Thank you," he said, and went out to rejoin his troops.
1:53:25
"Victor Avenue . . ." said Alex, thinking. "What was the address again? 2346 Victor Avenue?" Frost nodded. Alex reached for Frost's phone, dialed an extension number.
"Gilmour," came Sonja's voice over the phone.
"Do you have that list of numbers we got from the hotel room?"
"Yeah, boss, got it right here."
"Is 2346 one of the numbers?"
A second of silence, then, "Yes. Last one on the list."
"The numbers are address numbers. 2346 is 2346 Victor Avenue. I need someone down there to draw up a list of all the addresses in Minneapolis that correspond with the other six numbers."
"Right away."
"Thanks." Alex hung up the receiver and turned back to Frost. "Two possibilities. Either al-Rahmad was careless in leaving that list for us to find, or . . ."
"Or he meant for us to find it," Frost finished. "I think that must be it. What other reason could he have had for leaving his hotel room key in the bomb? He wanted to leave a trail leading to that list."
"Which means either the bombs are there, or we'll be walking into traps." Alex shook his head. "Even with the numbers to help us, there are still hundreds of places in Minneapolis to search. Art, I think this is a wild goose chase."
Frost nodded. "We still have to treat the threat as real. He said thirty to sixty times as powerful as the bomb in the warehouse – that means the least powerful of such a bomb could level half a city block. We can't afford to ignore it."
"Should I call a senior staff conference?"
"Ten minutes. Meantime, I'll talk to Division again." He picked up the phone as Alex stood and walked out of the office, moving quickly.
1:56:01
The Frenchman stood up and spent a long moment looking over his handiwork. Most of the device was now assembled – it was a long, gray canister that, when closed, would look – and act – much like a large helium tank, with the air nozzle sticking out of the top capable of expelling air from inside at tremendous pressure. At the bottom of the canister was a small electronic time-release mechanism that would activate the device after a designated interval. It was built such that, once activated, any attempt whatsoever to deactivate it would trigger the release mechanism.
Now came the tricky part.
The Frenchman opened the front door and trudged back outside to the minivan. He opened the back door and retrieved – very carefully – an object wrapped in a towel. It was heavy, and the Frenchman, strong as he was, grunted under its weight as he carried it into the house and set it down gently next to the device.
He unwrapped the towel, revealing an air tank, built to the exact specifications of the device. It was pressurized to 2,000 atmospheres – the tank itself represented the cutting-edge in materials engineering technology, as it had to in order to contain that much pressure. When installed, it would fit neatly between the interior nozzle and the time-release mechanism.
It was the last part of the device to be installed. He went about the work slowly and deliberately, not bothering to wear an air mask or take any other precaution. If he screwed up at this point, he was a dead man anyway.
1:58:37
Rick was ten miles beyond Fergus Falls when the tire went flat. He swore loudly and pulled the Nissan over to the shoulder of I-94. Leaving the ignition turned on, he climbed out of the car and took a look. The front driver's side wheel had gone flat, all right – probably a piece of glass in the road or something.
"Well if this doesn't just beat all," Rick muttered. He didn't have a spare, and there were almost no service stations open at two in the morning – certainly none near Fergus Falls. If he stuck with the Nissan, there was no way he would reach Minneapolis before early afternoon.
Rick considered a moment, then sighed heavily, pulled his cell phone out of his coat pocket, and dialed Jacqui's number.
Inside the car, only faintly heard by Rick standing outside the car, the radio was still tuned to the Fargo AM station.
"It's coming up on the top of the hour," said the announcer. "National news in just a moment, but first more on the weather that has now moved into the Red River Valley region . . . and folks, 'blizzard conditions' doesn't do this one justice. The National Weather Service has extended the severe winter weather warning until 4:00 AM, due to the increasing size of this snowstorm.
"We have already had an inch and a half of snowfall in the last half hour, and are expecting another six to eight inches tonight. Winds are gusting around – whew! – seventy miles per hour, causing windchills of minus twenty and below. You folks down in Fergus Falls and Alexandria, it's headed your way pretty quickly. We're also getting reports of power outages in West Fargo and Moorhead, and have even gotten a few brownouts right here at the station.
"So once again: stay inside, stay warm, and do not go out unless it's an absolute emergency. We'll continue to keep you updated throughout the—"
There was a loud burst of static, and the radio was silent.
2:00:00