Stephen Hunter - Dead Zero

“The journey is almost over,” said Bilal. “Are you prepared for what comes next? Have you accepted it?”

“Completely,” said Faisal. “Never for a second did I have a doubt.”

“I am without doubt too,” said Khalid. “The religious subtext here means nothing to me, it’s all mumbo jumbo, but I embrace the political one. My hand shall not pause, my heart shall not fail.”

“That was very good ice cream,” said Faisal.

“Another thing he said with which I agree. Yes, it was very good ice cream.”

They had stopped at a Baskin-Robbins on the way over, three men of obvious Middle Eastern persuasion, in fresh new dishdashas with prayer caps on, waited patiently in line among the moms and dads and squealing children, some in dirty baseball uniforms, some mere babies, and each had gotten a special treat. Khalid had double strawberry in a cup; Bilal a straight sundae with walnuts, whipped cream, and a cherry; and Faisal maple praline and mint chocolate chip in a waffle cone, but with a dish beneath so that when the cone could no longer support the ice cream, the whole confection would not disintegrate in his hands.

Now, finally, they were where they should be at the time they should be there.

FROM THE HOOVER BUILDING TO THE WHITE HOUSE

WASHINGTON, DC

1932 HOURS

Memphis, Swagger, Cruz, and Okada raced through the hallway to the exit dock, where a black FBI Explorer, its blue-red lights already flashing, its engine running, waited. Memphis got behind the wheel, and Cruz went to the rear of the vehicle, opened the tailgate, removed a gun case, opened it, and pulled an H-S.308 sniper rifle from it, and a red box of Black Hills 168-grain Match ammo. He went to the driver’s side and climbed in.

Memphis was saying, “I will designate target. You listen to nobody but me if it comes to that. And you do not fire unless I give you the green, you have that, Sergeant?”

“Yessir,” said Cruz, who at the same time was reading the rifle’s logbook, maintained shot by shot by its original assignee. He learned it had been fired 2,344 times, all with Federal Gold Tip 168-grain Match ammunition, for an average five-shot group from 100 yards of.56 inches. It was, of course, an H-S Precision rifle built from the design of a Remington 700 action, trued and bedded by the H-S custom shop, a Jewell trigger installed, with a Broughton barrel; its last 200-yard group, shot three weeks ago at Quantico, had been 1.06 inches, and the shooter, Special Agent Dave McElroy, had readjusted the zero to 100 yards, cleaned it, fired one fouling shot, and put it away for deployment. He had been on the perimeter of the convenience store on Wisconsin Avenue, but had not gotten a shot.

Chandler leaned in.

“Okay, you’re cleared through the southeast gate. Then you can pull around past the big house to the right and take the roadway to the right straight to the Rose Garden. Secret Service has been briefed and will greet you.”

“Good work,” he said. “Okay, let’s go.”

The SUV pulled out, scooted around the block, passed several vehicles that maneuvered out of the way, hit Pennsylvania’s broadness, turned right, and Nick accelerated.

The vehicle ate up the eight blocks of government architecture and hotel frontage that dominated Pennsylvania, slowing only to weave its way through the traffic at cross streets. It reached the White House southeast gate below the Treasury Department’s Doric immensity. The gate to the White House, nestled in a bank of trees, loomed just ahead. A red light and too much oncoming traffic momentarily halted them just a few yards shy of the goal.

“Where’s the goddamn siren?” Nick cursed.

Bob leaned forward to help him find it.

“Wait,” said Susan. “Jesus, look. That’s him. That’s him .”

Indeed it was. Stepping out of the pedestrian gate, a short, furtive figure paused for the same light that halted the SUV. Yes indeed, clutching his ever-present professorial briefcase, it was the director of National Intelligence, Ted Hollister. He checked his watch, looked both ways impatiently, and realized he had to wait for the shift to green like all ordinary mortals. They saw him exhale a large breath in frustration.

Nick found the siren. Blaring, he pulled ahead, as the cars before him parted awkwardly to clear a path. Nick took the left, pulled across traffic, and halted two feet from Ted Hollister.

“Mr. Hollister, sir, where are you going?”

In seconds Nick was next to him, Bob flanking the other side, and Ray close at hand. The car’s blue-and-red pumped color into the scene, and around them at the juncture of 15th and Pennsylvania, traffic piled up.

“He’s bugging out,” said Bob.

Susan came to them.

“Mr. Hollister,” said Nick, “you remember me, Nick Memphis, FBI?”

“I do. What is this about?” said the old man curtly. “I have an important appointment.”

“Sir, late last night we arrested Jared Dixson and he’s now confessed to assigning a contractor team to take out Whiskey Two-Two, and to authorizing a smart munition into a nonmilitary target in Qalat. There is more collateral that will have to be answered for as well. We’ve seen the records and clearly he is connected to you and-”

“I will be happy to discuss this with you at length in my office. Simply schedule an appointment and I will-”

“Sir, why are you leaving the White House now?” Bob said. “Ain’t this your big night? Seems odd-”

“I do not intend to stand in the street and discuss matters of national security with sergeants and low-ranking agents. I warn you, gentlemen, I will take severe action against you and I have considerable influence. Now, let me go-”

“Why are you in a panic to leave now? What’s happening in two minutes that you have to be far away from it?”

“I will not stand for this. I will call a policeman.”

“You ain’t calling no one, goddamnit,” said Bob.

“I will destroy you,” said Hollister. “You have no idea who you’re dealing with.”

But then Bob pulled Nick aside.

“This ain’t getting us nowhere,” he said. “Y’all take a little break. You go take a walk or something, whatever. You trusted me, I’s just an old fool, said I was too tired to go with you. You’re all off the hook. You leave. I guaran-fucking-tee you that in three minutes this weasel tells me everything. And I mean everything. ”

“No,” said Nick. “Swagger, this is the United States. We do not-”

“Ticktock, ticktock. It’s happening now. The one they said wouldn’t never happen, the ticking-bomb deal. You’d risk all them lives and the morale, the humiliation, the degradation of this country because you want to feel good about yourself tomorrow morning? That’s a pretty high price for feeling good about yourself, Nick, and I have to say, it’s not your ass on the line, it’s theirs.”

“I want this off the table,” said Nick. “It is not to be discussed anymore. Instead, I want-”

“He’s right,” said Susan. “Ticktock, ticktock. It has to be done.”

Nick shook his head. He could not believe he was having this discussion, but he was.

“Then I should be the one who-”

“No,” said Bob. “Everyone here is young and has way more to contribute. Me, I’m done, there’s nothing left for me. Lay it off on me, I’ll go to prison, I’ll be the torturer, the one everybody can hate. I’ll break every one of his goddamned fingers and he’ll sing before I reach number three.”

Then Susan said, “Wait.”

“Look, I know this guy,” she said. “You’re right in thinking that if this thing is going to happen, it’s going to happen tonight, in a very few minutes. He is not afraid of pain or of disgrace or of failure. He is not an Islamist. He doesn’t believe in seventy-two virgins. He believes in nothing, and that being the case, only one thing can frighten him and you see it in his flight. He is afraid of death. If there’s death anywhere tonight, it’s at the White House. Take him to the White House. What happens to them happens to him. That takes it all from him, and that and that alone frightens him.”