Ted Bell - Spy

“Talk to me.”

“All right. Based on Caparina’s last radio transmission, I’d say there is a good chance they might stow any hostages right here.”

His finger was pointing to a cluster of tree houses at the edge of the compound, hard by the main bridge.

“Why there?”

“Caparina managed to get herself assigned to some scutwork on the bridge. Raking debris from all this rain. She said she heard a lot of very unpleasant noises coming from the three houses by the river.”

“When was this?”

“1100 hours. She’s got a radio stashed somewhere.”

“Ambrose was still alive at 1100 hours,” Hawke said, looking at Stokely and then his watch.

“We’ll get him out,” Stoke said to Alex, “Don’t worry.”

“Tell me about this structure here,” Hawke said, pointing to another location a few hundred yards from the river.

“Communications and Control. Call it the ‘Tomb’. About twenty feet underground. Steel blast doors, reinforced concrete walls six feet thick. It’s a bitch, all right.”

“Any tomb will do,” Hawke said, “Where is Saladin now?”

“Moving his squad through the jungle toward this location here. Airstrip I found two miles from the west perimeter. He’ll wait there for our signal before moving into the compound to rendezvous.”

“Rendezvous point?”

“Right here. I told Saladin we’d hook up half mile above the bridge connecting the two sectors.”

“No river mines there?”

“None. The mines are all here.”

“Where we’re headed now.”

“Exactly.”

“Christ.”

Froggy said, “Now that we have an idée where Congreve might be, his rescue is perhaps not impossible.”

For the first time since Ambrose had been kidnapped, Hawke felt a surge of hope.

It had started to rain. Hard. A heavy drumming on the cabin top over his head. Maybe it was a good sign.

God knew he could use one.

76

WASHINGTON, DC

T he phone rang. Dixon reached over and grabbed it before it could ring again, looking at his glow-in-the-dark watch as he did it. Almost eleven. He’d been sleeping for an hour. Couldn’t even stay awake long enough to tell Daisy about meeting the president of the United States; even if he only stuck his head into a meeting to say hello. He’d told her about Homer. That was about all he could manage. Out the window, he could see the vapor lights of the hotel parking lot. It had stopped snowing.

“Hello?”

“Sheriff Dixon?”

“Speaking.”

“Sheriff, this is Secret Service Special Agent Rocky Hernandez, assigned to the president’s detail. I was with the team that greeted you and Secretary de los Reyes at the White House earlier this evening?”

“Yes, sir. I remember you. One of the K-9 fellows.”

“Right. Sorry to disturb you, but my boss just asked me to call. He said to tell you there’s just been an explosion in Rock Creek Park.”

“I thought I heard something. About a fifteen minutes ago? Woke me up. I thought it was normal.”

“No, sir. Not normal. It was a huge explosion. People are very jumpy around here tonight because of the Inauguration tomorrow. Threat level high, internet chatter over at NSA is going through the roof. Police are headed to the scene. I was off duty and headed home to Maryland when I got the call from the White House.”

“How can I help you, Agent Hernandez?”

“Call me Rocky. I’m turned around on the Beltway and headed back to the White House. Your hotel is on my way. Agent-in-Charge was wondering if I could come by and pick you up? There was apparently a big semi truck involved in the explosion and he thought maybe you and I could swing through the Park over there and—”

“How long?”

“Two minutes.”

“I’ll be out front.”

The Secret Service agent’s car pulled up in front of the Doubletree lobby and Dixon climbed inside. It was a Jeep Cherokee with a wire cage in the rear and a dog back there.

“I appreciate this, Sheriff,” Hernandez said, pulling out of the lot.

“No problem at all. What kind of explosion was it?”

“That’s what we want to find out. Looks like a tractor-trailer rig and a DC squad car were involved. A collision, is what they’re thinking so far.”

“Pretty big collision to make a bang like that.”

“That’s what we think, too.”

“That your dog back there? Or, an official one?”

“That’s Dutch. Mandatory retirement after eleven years service. He’s got one year to go.”

“Dutch, huh? Good name.”

“Named after my first boss, President Reagan.”

“Dutch still goes to work?”

“All the K-9 dogs get to go home every night with their handlers. Part of my family, Sheriff.”

“What is he? Looks a lot like a German Shepherd.”

“He’s a Belgian Malinois. That’s all we use now. Trained to detect drugs, explosives, firearms.”

“Explosives, huh?”

“Yeah, that’s what I was thinking, too.”

“Great minds think alike,” Dixon said, and, looking out the window at Washington in the snow, he added, “And so do ours.”

There had to be twenty squad cars and emergency vehicles already at the scene. Tape was up, surrounding a big black hole in the ground. The surrounding snow-covered trees were lit up with flashing blue and red lights. Dixon noticed two vehicles marked BOMB DISPOSAL parked near the blackened center of the explosion. On the far side, a large FBI crime scene van was a hive of activity.

He and Hernandez climbed out of the car and fetched Dutch out of the back. Once he was on his lead, they went up to an officer standing inside the tape and showed their shields.

“White House dog?” the D.C. uniform asked Hernandez, rubbing Dutch’s coat.

“Yes, he is.”

“Glad to have him at the scene. You gentlemen let me know if you need anything.”

“Two vehicles involved, officer?” Dixon asked the uniform before he could turn to go.

“Correct. We’ve got tracks of only two vehicles leading to the scene. Most likely a DC Metro cruiser and an eighteen-wheeler. Not much left of either one as you can see. I suppose the gas tanks on both vehicles blew when they collided.”

“Collided,” Dixon said, pushing his short brim back on his forehead and looking at the hole.

“That’s what it looks like.”

Dixon said, “Anything else you can tell us?”

“Well, this doesn’t make a whole lot of sense, but an Officer Darius called in with something about a remote-controlled vehicle here in the Park. What’s that all about? Some kid flying a toy plane? Nobody knew what the hell to make of it. A couple of minutes later, boom.”

“Have you heard from Officer Darius?”

“No, sir.”

Dixon and Hernandez looked at each other, thanked the officer, and walked away. There was a small group of uniformed officers and others who stood looking down into the hole. Three men in HAZMAT suits were down at the bottom taking soil samples or whatever it was they did. Dixon looked around. A bomb disposal technician was playing with a little robot back in the trees where the road had been cordoned off to protect any tire tracks in the snow.

The hole was nearly fifteen feet across and ten feet deep. Hernandez released Dutch and the dog took off at a trot, circling the crater and the dirty black snow all around the edge, all fired up.

“How good is he?” Dixon asked, watching with admiration as the dog worked.

“They learn to detect almost nineteen thousand individual scents. After twenty-six weeks of training, Dutch scored 650 out of a possible 700 points. He’s good.”

“I think I’ll stroll back down that road a ways. Take a look around. Let Dutch here do his job in peace.”