Nemesis (32 page)

Kelly eyed the ratty brown sofa. It didn’t look comfortable, but Cal, who was sleeping here, would have to make do. “Okay, for a few minutes, then,” Kelly said. Before she sat down next to Cal, she checked that the draperies were tightly closed, the doors dead-bolted, the chains drawn tight and hooked, then pulled the draperies aside for one final look to be sure the agents stationed outside were where they should be. As she settled in next to Cal, the program came on.

The camera zoomed in on a studio where two men sat across from each other, one of them a BBC newscaster Kelly recognized, Roland Atterley. He was hard to miss with his white hair, thick mustache, and magnetic voice. The other was a good-looking man in his mid-thirties, beautifully suited. He seemed to be an Arab, and wasn’t that interesting?

Atterley looked directly into the camera. “I would like to welcome Dr. Samir Basara, professor at the London School of Economics, popular lecturer and writer on what he claims will be the coming economic destabilization of the Middle East. Thank you for being here with us this evening, Dr. Basara.”

In a crisp upper-class British voice, Basara said, “It is my pleasure, Mr. Atterley.”

“Dr. Basara, the terrorist attack on the TGV and the resulting large loss of life, as well as the failed attacks at JFK and Saint Patrick’s Cathedral in New York City this past Wednesday, has come as a tremendous shock to the world. Do you believe these attacks were related, though no one group has yet claimed responsibility?”

“Yes, I do. I also believe the failed bombing attempt in New York has only fueled their hatred and resolve.” Dr. Basara turned his head to look into the camera. He was darkly handsome, Kelly saw, and he looked very intense and intelligent. “Unfortunately, I fear these attacks may leave the United States and the Continent and move here to Britain. I believe it possible that Saint Paul’s may be the terrorists’ next target, or Westminster, or some other important symbol of our history. They seem to be targeting whatever they can destroy that we ourselves might see as defining who we are, and that includes our churches. For them, destroying our holy symbols means destroying our civilization itself.” Roland Atterley hadn’t expected Basara to leap to the guts of the situation so quickly, without his expert guidance. He wanted to ask him why an Algerian Muslim would care so much about Western cathedrals, but naturally, he didn’t. He saw Dr. Basara was looking quite comfortable, sitting a bit forward in his chair, resting his hands lightly on its arms. It was time for him to take back control. “If you are right and these attacks continue, the economic consequences might be more far-reaching than the attacks of Nine-Eleven. Dr. Basara, are you concerned your predictions might cause undue alarm, even panic, in this country?”

Basara nodded, his face serious, his demeanor solemn as a hanging judge’s. He had the look of an aesthete, Sherlock thought. “As well it should, Mr. Atterley. No sense tripping all over ourselves to avoid saying the obvious. In the short term, we must tighten our security measures, do our best to find the fanatics responsible. But that is only a partial solution. Much of this hatred is fueled by our own actions, our own omissions. I have argued for years that the key to fighting terrorism is to remove its economic causes, and that means providing more economic opportunities for our own disaffected Muslim minorities, and even more critical, providing far more focused and abundant economic aid to those governments we can work with in the regions of the world that are the wellsprings of this hatred for us.” He looked down at his fisted hand. “Until then, I have no hope we can put all this behind us, that we can, in fact, ever achieve a meaningful and lasting peace.”

There was a moment of stark silence. Roland Atterley cleared his throat but managed not to roll his eyes. “Some, shall I say, of the more enlightened members of our society—”

Cal’s cell buzzed “Born Free,” which got him an incredulous look from Kelly.

“McLain.”

“Savich. Tell me exactly what you guys are up to, Cal, and don’t even think of leaving anything out.”

“We’re hunkered down for the night now in the house the FBI picked out for us in Brooklyn, watching some big-time Arab economist on the BBC expound on why we’re all responsible for the terrorist attacks.” He paused. “Don’t worry, Savich, we ain’t gonna let anything happen to Sherlock tonight. All is good.”

“I’m depending on you, Cal. Keep her safe.”

“Has MAX made any progress on finding Hercule?”

“No luck yet with that name online or on the deep Web as either a moniker or a nickname. We’ll keep trying.”

When Cal punched off, he looked at Sherlock, who’d been waiting for him to hand over his cell. He grinned at her, shook his head. “Your husband only wanted to remind me my neck’s on the line if anything happens to you. So let’s take great care, all right?”

Kelly laughed. “Well, I guess a husband who’s your boss at the FBI is better than a hysterical civilian cursing us for keeping you here, Sherlock. Sorry, Cal, the interview’s over and we missed the big wrap-up. Lights out in five minutes, everyone. Cal, alas, you get the sofa. There are blankets in the hall closet and I even saw a couple of pillows. You can take the bathroom first, Sherlock and I are going to share.”

Showering with a woman brushing her teeth not two feet away was a new experience, but Sherlock really needed that shower. As she washed her hair, she prayed a very simple prayer.
Keep me and my family safe.

I
t was past midnight. Kelly and Sherlock spoke quietly as they sat in the dark in the small bedroom, both wearing jeans and sweatshirts, since they had no idea if anything would happen. But if it did, neither wanted to get caught in a firefight in her pajamas.

Candle Street was quiet, only the occasional sound of a car driving by. The air in the bedroom was still, with the scent of stale cigar smoke. Kelly waved her hand in front of her nose. “They should have sprayed after they let Butchy Remis stay here. He’s a low-class hood who turned on his bosses. I remember those cigars.”

“Part of the extravagant lifestyle we signed up for at the Bureau,” Sherlock said, stretching. “You could be home in bed. So could I, for that matter. Do you ever regret signing up?”

“I always knew I wanted to be some kind of cop. I’ve got cop blood, as Cal put it, what with a dad and granddad in law enforcement. But I was kind of coasting, not really settled on a major. You’re young and having fun and wondering what life is going to bring to you. Well, one night life brought me two local creeps who thought it would be cool to hassle a student coming out of the library. Maybe they were thinking rape, but they never admitted that. Mrs. Otis, one of the campus security guards at Northwestern, took them both on, arrested them herself. She told me I had to learn to protect myself unless I expected her to trail me around. I signed up for martial-arts training the next day. Turned out both of Mrs. Otis’s sons were FBI agents. She said she wished she’d made the same choice when she was young enough to have the chance.

“We’d have coffee and I met her sons, talked to them about what they did. They were impressive. As I told Cal, one day I woke up and that was it. I’d be in the FBI. Did you join up before you met your husband, Sherlock?”

Sherlock remembered the now-blurred pain, finally at a blessed distance. She said only, “I joined up to catch my sister’s killer, and oddly enough, Dillon and I did. I discovered it was my calling then and never looked back. Did Cal tell you why he became an agent?”

Your sister’s killer?
Kelly wanted to know what this was all about, but it was obvious Sherlock didn’t want to give her any specifics. She said, “I know it all had to do with Nine-Eleven and how an eighteen-year-old boy responded to it.”

“Yes, that was a big part of it. He also lost an uncle fighting Al Qaeda after the first Gulf War.”

So he’d told her some, but not about his uncle. He’d been little more than a boy then. “Ah, Sherlock,” she said, “Cal’s not seeing anyone currently, is he?”

“Not unless it just happened. I expect Dillon or I would have heard it floating around the CAU.” She grinned in the dark, even though she knew Kelly couldn’t see it. “The CAU is like a big, clear Olympic pool—even if you try to sink something under the surface, most everyone still sees it.”

“Same in New York. Everyone knows everything about you almost before you do.” She heard Sherlock yawn. “Sounds like you’re ready to hang it up. Think you can sleep?”

“Yes. I only hope I don’t dream about terrorists buzzing around me like rabid wasps.”

“I wonder if you have to get those nasty shots if you get bit by a rabid wasp.”

It didn’t seem like any time had passed at all. One moment Sherlock was deep in a well of sleep and the next moment she was jerked awake by bright floodlights pouring in through the window drapes and loud, piercing gunfire. Several bullets slammed through the window, sending glass shards everywhere; bullets hit the walls, and paint and drywall went flying. Kelly grabbed her and pulled her down between the twin beds. Cal came tearing through the bedroom door, Glock drawn, and quickly flattened himself beside the women. Kelly was on her comm unit. “What’s happening? What’s happening?”

“Stay down. We saw two men creeping around the side of the house. We surprised them and lit them up like the Fourth of July. Now we’ve got a firefight. Stay down!”

Kelly was reaching for her Glock when Cal’s hand came down on top of hers. “Nope, we stay down, Larry’s call.” He tried to tuck both women beneath him, but it didn’t work. There was no way either Kelly or Sherlock were going to lie quietly while the world exploded around them. More glass from the window came flying into the room, raining down on them. Cal reached up, grabbed a couple pillows, and dropped them over their heads. They waited, fighting floods of adrenaline, each wanting to be in the action, not lying between two beds.

“The neighbors must be lighting up nine-one-one,” Kelly said, her voice muffled because Cal’s arm was partially covering her mouth. “Never happened here before. Move your arm before I bite you!”

Suddenly, they heard a man yell, and the gunfire stopped. They waited, and Cal came up to his knees. Kelly’s comm came on: “Larry here. Two men, both down. We got them trying to run out the front. Repeat, they’re down, all is clear.”

Sherlock looked at the digital clock beside the bed. No more than three minutes had passed.

Kelly said into her comm, “Anyone hurt?”

“No, all of us are good.”

“Okay, we’re coming out.”

Kelly turned on the bedroom light. The room was a shambles, drywall all over the floor mixed with shards of glass from the broken windowpanes, the dresser chipped by flying debris and bullet fragments. “Probably sixty rounds sent in here,” Cal said. “Let’s go see what our guys have outside.”

He turned to see Sherlock standing quietly in the bedroom doorway. She wasn’t moving an inch. She turned and placed her finger over her mouth. “Stay here,” she whispered. “I heard something. I’m going to check it out.”

Cal’s blood turned to ice. He whispered, “No, Sherlock, don’t move, I’ll do it,” but she’d already disappeared into the hallway. He heard Kelly rack her Glock. “Let’s go,” she said low, and she and Cal followed Sherlock into the dark hallway. They didn’t hear anything, only Sherlock’s footsteps.

Then there was an ear-shattering blast that shook the house. “Sherlock!” Cal raced down the hall, Kelly on his heels. They ran into the kitchen in time to see a small figure leaping out the window. The kitchen was fast filling with smoke and flames, licking toward the cabinets. Sherlock was scrabbling up on the counter to go out of the kitchen window. The heat was suddenly incredible. Cal yelled, “Sherlock, we’re going out the front. Stay on the kitchen side! Be careful!”

Sherlock dropped to the ground outside the kitchen window and into a yew bush, pushed herself behind it. She yelled, “Larry, it’s Sherlock!” She felt the heat of a bullet pass by her cheek, and flattened herself to the ground, tasting dirt. She yelled again, “Larry, there’s another one, he firebombed the kitchen! I’m pinned down!”

Sherlock elbow-walked around the yew bush, looked carefully past it. She saw a slight figure moving fast to hide behind a skinny oak tree on the far side of the yard, maybe thirty feet away.

She yelled, “Drop your gun and get your hands up. We won’t shoot you. Do it! We have you surrounded, there’s no way out. Your two friends are already shot! Don’t make us shoot you, too!”

The figure’s arm jerked up and fired toward the sound of Sherlock’s voice. The bullet struck the house a few feet above her head. She heard the pounding of FBI feet coming closer, came up on her elbows, fired. There was a yell, and the gun went flying as Larry and four more FBI agents came racing around the side of the house, crouched over, fanning out into the backyard.

“He’s down!”

She saw them approach the moaning figure, guns trained center mass, going to their knees to restrain the terrorist, who was crying and cradling his wrist.

The terrorist stopped crying and looked back toward the madly burning house, casting the inferno’s glow on all of them. Orange flames gushed out toward them, and black smoke ate the oxygen out of the air, making it hard to breathe. The backyard looked like high noon.