David Ellis - The Wrong Man

I called Shauna to check in. I told her what I could but explained that I was being sworn to silence for now.

“So there’s not going to be an evacuation or anything?”

I sighed. “I don’t know. I don’t think even they’ve decided one way or another. I mean, we’ve put together some facts that look ominous, but the truth is, they don’t know if this is going to happen tomorrow or if it’s going to happen at all. And think what our country would be like if every time they heard some scary chatter, a major metropolitan center just ground to a halt? Think about Al Qaeda or the Brotherhood of Jihad, or homegrown lunatics. They’d set up hoaxes and watch us go crazy chasing our tails, evacuating cities and destroying our way of life. It would be death by a thousand cuts. They’d win without ever killing a single person.”

Shauna was quiet for a long time. “Sounds like they’ve indoctrinated you.”

“I can see their point of view. Me, I think it’s happening tomorrow. I think Manning is timing this so that he attacks our government on the anniversary of what was, for a long time, the single worst attack on American soil.”

“You’d think they would’ve chosen September eleventh.”

That was a good point. I wondered why they didn’t. Maybe because security was too high on that day? The government was far less likely to expect an attack on Pearl Harbor Day.

“Anyway,” I said, “promise me, kiddo. Nobody goes near downtown tomorrow.”

“I promise,” she said.

I walked over to the doorway of my windowless room and looked out. Dozens of dedicated agents were trying their best to separate threats from hoaxes, imminent from distant, likely from unlikely. They were trying to locate three You-Ride rental trucks, rigged with deadly explosives, within a metropolitan population of three million people. They were flailing, grappling in the dark for something, anything.

And so was I. I’d gone through most of the documents on the table, trying to stir a thought or memory, to no avail. The only truth I knew, at this moment, was turning my stomach into a battleground, filling my chest with a poisonous dread.

We had no idea where those three trucks were located.

Lee Tucker walked into my conference room at eleven o’clock that evening. Agents had been in and out of this room over the last several hours, asking questions and throwing out ideas. I had tossed out some of my own. But I could tell, as the night wore on, that nothing I could come up with was getting us anywhere.

Lee looked over a half-eaten pizza and considered a slice. “I should have taken this more seriously from the first time you talked to me,” he said.

I didn’t reply. He was right. But these guys had a tough job, sorting through all this shit constantly.

“Well, it’s over,” he told me. “We’re done looking. We’ve satisfied ourselves that there is no truck containing bomb material within the commercial district. Not on the streets, not in parking garages or parking lots. We’ve gone block by block.”

“What about private residences?”

He shrugged. “There aren’t many of those with garages that could hold one of those You-Ride trucks. They’re ten feet tall. But anyway, anything we came across, we checked. We knocked on doors and got permission or sometimes didn’t wait for permission.” He shook his head. “If these truck bombs really exist-”

“They do.”

“-then they aren’t down here yet.”

That was good news, at least. “So, why don’t you extend your search outward?” I asked. “Go a mile or two beyond the commercial district and near north?”

“Because it would never end,” said Lee. “Because at some point, you have to focus your resources elsewhere.”

“Like where?”

“Like on prevention,” said Lee. “We know the trucks aren’t down here yet. Now we have to make sure they don’t get down here. We have to stop them before they hit their targets.”

Lee rubbed his eyes, which were already bloodshot and hooded.

Then he looked at his watch. “Twelve hours from now,” he said, “that procession begins.”

Randall Manning set up the framed photos of his family on the dashboard of the You-Ride truck. It was poorly lit inside this garage but he could still see them clearly. The photos were just physical manifestations, anyway. His wife and son, his daughter-in-law and granddaughter, were burned into his memory.

Would his wife approve of what he was doing? Would Quinn? He didn’t know. He didn’t kid himself that everybody would side with him. But his resolve wouldn’t be shaken. This was no time for forgive-and-forget. His government had turned its back on the victims of the Sahmeran Adana, and he could never forgive that.

Nor could he ever forget. He’d never forget the words that changed everything, the words delivered by his CIA mole, Costigan, the balding, weathered agent who would use the hundred thousand dollars Manning paid him in cash to educate his twin daughters.

We found him. We found Jawhar.

A thrill had run up Manning’s spine. The U. S. had found Jawhar Al-Asmari, the supreme leader of the Brotherhood of Jihad, the man behind the attack on the Sahmeran Adana Hotel.

Where? Manning asked.

Costigan spoke so low as to qualify as a whisper, even though nobody could possibly hear them in Manning’s car in the parking garage.

I can’t reveal that, Costigan said.

That response had surprised Manning, given the sum he’d paid for inside information. So what’s going to happen? When do we go in and get him?

Costigan’s eyes diverted.

Manning repeated the question.

Costigan cleared his throat. The country where we found him-it’s a potential strategic ally we’ve been courting for a long time. A country we’ve been trying to pry away from Iran, from Russia and China. We need all the allies we can find in that region What are you telling me? Manning interrupted.

Costigan took a moment. I’m telling you that the attack on the Sahmeran Adana is not viewed as an attack on America. I’m telling you that if we go in and raid that compound in that particular country, we lose that country forever.

Manning was speechless. The man who had ordered the murder of hundreds of innocent people, including seventeen Americans-and Manning’s entire family-was going to walk away scot-free?

The president just said last week that we’re still hunting Al-Asmari, said Manning. So that was all bullshit?

Costigan nodded and sighed. It was all bullshit. Officially, the manhunt continues. That’s the line everyone will recite. Even me. But this comes from the Oval Office, I’m told: Nobody is to breathe a word about the location of Jawhar Al-Asmari, and the U. S. government will do nothing to apprehend him or kill him.

Then tell one of the European countries, Manning protested. Tell the Brits. The French.

Costigan shook his head. The feeling is that it will still bear our fingerprints. We’re not even telling our allies about this. I’m sorry, Mr. Manning.

Then tell me, Costigan. Tell me! I’ve paid you handsomely You can have the money back, Mr. Manning, if you like. I’m truly sorry. If it were up to me, we’d go get that asshole. But it’s already been decided. Jawhar Al-Asmari is getting a pass on this one.

And this-this is what the president wants?

Costigan started and paused. From what I hear, this was the recommendation from the attorney general. He’s part of the brain trust on these things. He has the president’s ear. There was disagreement in the room-but the AG’s position won out.

The attorney general? Randall Manning couldn’t believe his ears. Langdon Trotter? Lang Trotter had been governor of Manning’s state until his elevation to attorney general a couple of years ago. He’d been a law-and-order guy, a tough guy. Hell, Randall Manning had been a fundraiser for Trotter, one of the top money guys for “Friends of Lang.” They’d smoked cigars and drunk scotch together. Manning had probably raised more than a million dollars for the man. And this is what he got in return?