Dick Couch: Out of the Ashes

Now he was alone. He picked up the phone and called the Lebanese agent in his employ.

Aaron Bleich was on edge and paced around the Geek Tank watching his eclectic band work. They combed the airways with their algorithms and decision-support software, sifting data and generating screen displays. The trouble was, he didn’t know what he was looking for. He had scrambled to reprogram their systems for domestic anomalies, but he still didn’t know what to look for. Later that afternoon, Maggie Scott and Hasan Khosa approached him.

“Aaron, we’re looking at some strange stuff and trying to make sense of it. Can you take a look at it?”

“Sure. Where?” Bleich asked.

“Maggie’s machine,” Khosa replied. “This way.”

The Lebanese had e-mailed Ilya Gorbonov at 1500 Washington, D.C., time, right before the start of the rush hour. The e-mail said simply, “Deliver your equipment to the prearranged locations and set it to activate at noon tomorrow, Washington, D.C., time.”

Finally, Ilya rejoiced. Then he felt something approaching panic. It was rush hour. He had to drive to multiple spots and get this all delivered before closing time in the malls where his carts were.

Couldn’t this idiot tell time? What was he supposed to do, fly to these places? He started slamming the keys on his laptop. Once he hit SEND, he pulled out his Northern Virginia map and started tracing out what he thought would be the best route to reach each of these malls given the area’s soon-to-be-gridlocked afternoon traffic. His efforts were interrupted when his e-mail binged. His contact had replied sooner than he had anticipated.

He began to mutter and then curse as he read this e-mail. Who did this asshole think he was, ordering him around like some coolie and not the professional he was? He typed furiously, his fingers flying over the keys, and then hit SEND. Ilya leaped up and started pacing around the room. He didn’t need to be treated like this. He would do it, but he would do it his way.

Less than three minutes later, his e-mail binged again. Ilya read it and began banging his fist on the desk in rage. He slammed his laptop closed and went to the closet to begin loading the boxes labeled “costume jewelry” into his SUV, still debating what route he should follow to make his deliveries without getting stuck in Washington’s late-afternoon traffic.

The meeting had begun with just Bleich, Scott, and Khosa in Roger McCord’s office. Then McCord had asked Brian Dawson to come in with James Wright, his domestic crisis manager. After much spirited discussion, Brian Dawson tried to sum it up.

“OK, first of all, Aaron, Maggie, and Hasan, outstanding job. This would have eluded most electronic search teams. We clearly need to take this to the boss, but just so I get it right and we’re of an accord, would you sum it all up, Aaron?”

Bleich looked to Roger McCord, but McCord just nodded, so Bleich spoke, “Well, it’s like this. We’ve had a stream of e-mails going back and forth from a foreign entity and someone here in Washington. They’re talking around what they are doing, but our system parameters are strongly suggesting they are planning an attack somewhere in the Washington, D.C., area.”

“And these attacks are supposed to happen soon?”

“Yes, sir,” Bleich replied. “Noon tomorrow.”

“Your team thinks these attacks are going to be mainly against civilians, right? Not on any instruments of national power, or on the government or the military? And this is all somehow connected to the attacks on Iran?”

“From the looks of it, yes, sir,” Bleich replied. “They’re talking about trying to achieve maximum casualties.”

“Are we’re still trying to source the location of this e-mail account?” McCord asked.

“That’s right,” Bleich replied. “So far, the process of elimination is pointing to somewhere outside of the District, and not west or south into Virginia, so we’re thinking somewhere in Maryland, most likely.”

“I see. Is your decision-support software suggesting anything regarding where they are going to try to get mass civilian casualties?”

“We’re still working it, but nothing yet.”

“All right, I think we have enough to take this to the boss now.”

Chase Williams had called the FBI director in the early afternoon following his team’s report. He offered to send James Wright, his domestic crisis manager, along with his intelligence director and part of his team, including Aaron Bleich, to the Hoover Building to brief him in person. The FBI director had listened to Williams, thanked him, but declined a personal briefing. He promised he would look into the matter.

When Bleich and the Geek Tank called Williams later in the afternoon and told him they had tracked the e-mail account to a six-block-square area in Silver Spring, Maryland, Williams had again called the FBI director. He urged him to have the FBI’s Critical Incident Response Group position themselves to be ready to act once the exact location was nailed. Once again, the director thanked him and told him he had contacted the attorney general and they would respond appropriately. When Williams again called him late that afternoon, he was told the director had gone to see the attorney general. Chase Williams knew and trusted both men. He had done all he could, but he couldn’t go home. He had headed to where Bleich and his team were doing their analysis and remained there all night.

Ilya Gorbonov had not returned to his hotel room until almost 2230, drained from dashing around the Capitol Beltway to deliver his sarin gas to the selected locations. He had chosen well, he reminded himself. He also smiled when he thought of the money. He was being paid a fixed fee, as well as a bonus for each dead American. The Americans were very good at counting their dead, which would make his accounting that much easier. This cheered him. What didn’t cheer him was the $260 parking ticket. He had placed the box in his cart in Union Station, his last stop, only beating the mall’s closing time by five minutes. He had parked in a fire zone right in front of the station. A parking ticket — just you wait!

He had set the explosive timers to go off precisely at noon when the malls would be full of regular shoppers, and the food courts would be full of people on their lunch breaks. He had told his salespeople at each cart that the boxes were not to be touched until April 15, Income Tax Day. That was when the new company he had purchased this jewelry from was going to have a Tax Day promotion. He assured them all there would be a nice bonus if they moved a lot of this jewelry on Tax Day.

His Lebanese contact had promised to transfer the money to his offshore bank account electronically the next morning. He was to remain in his hotel until then, at which time he was free to leave Washington forever. Gorbonov had his one bag packed, his SUV gassed up, and had paid his hotel bill in full in cash. He was ready to leave.

Chase Williams was back in his office by 0900, having shaved and showered in the National Geospatial-Intelligence Agency’s gym. His patience with the FBI director was wearing thin. He called the director’s office, got his EA, and was told the director was with the attorney general and could not be reached.

At precisely noon, eastern daylight time, there was a loud explosion in carts selling costume jewelry in Union Station, the Pentagon City Mall, the Crystal City Underground, the White Flint Mall, and the Tysons Corner’s food court.