The Courier: A Ryan Kealey Thriller (36 page)

B
y law, an American port of entry is any access point to a nation at which a Customs and Border Protection agent is authorized to inspect cargo and collect the appropriate duties. Ports of entry are monitored exclusively by the CBP, which is one of the most important divisions of the Department of Homeland Security.

Shippers who frequent international ports work with bonded brokers who expedite the process of clearing cargo. In the case of the
Murghen
, the operators typically filed a standard customs declaration form that was checked by the broker, who took responsibility for the validity of the claim.

SeaLions was located in a glass building on the corner of Fleet Street and Mariner Passage. The firm built the three-story structure, with its modern warehouse facility and inventory system, after swallowing several smaller brokers ruined at the onset of the Great Recession. SeaLions was a mix of veterans from the older companies and newcomers brought on for the new enterprise.

One of the veterans was Joe Cuthbert. He was in his early seventies, and it had been suggested several times that he retire. But he had been the owner of Docktors, one of the companies purchased by SeaLions, and he had a great many friends and supporters at CBP. He needed the income, he liked to work, so he was allowed to stay.

Today, however, he was told he’d be getting the remainder of the afternoon off.

“Who says?” he asked as he stepped from the lavatory, still wiping his face with a paper towel, and was met by the office manager.

Gerr Brown, the office manager—a young, balding man with a pie face and dark currant eyes—handed him his cell phone.

“Max Carlson, the head of Homeland Security,” Brown said. “He’s also going to need your uniform.”

 

 

Largo was looking out the window at the Potomac. “If I walked across the river, someone would say, ‘LBJ can’t swim!’ ”

“Did the President really say that, Largo?” Allison asked.

“I’m paraphrasing, but it was something to that effect,” Largo said.

“That’s Washington,” she said.

“It’s a shame,” Largo went on. “Think of all the miracles that have originated along the banks of this river. Raising the capital from a swamp. Delivering an entire race of people from bondage. Passing legislation about human rights—all of that against awesome odds with results that inspired the world. Miracles are almost commonplace here, Allison. With the help of God, we just have to do one more.”

Allison wasn’t religious but she still said a quiet “amen.” She had her doubts about this one, not because of Largo—he seemed a new man—but because she always heard about these efforts after the fact. It was something else to be part of one, to watch it unfold in terrifying real time.

An hour before, driving by rote, her brain defiantly locked on what could be a countdown to the end of her life, Allison had gotten off the Capital Beltway and was heading south on National Harbor Boulevard. They had pulled up to the sliding gate at SeaLions, where a sentry checked Allison’s license against the data he’d been given on the phone and told them where to park.

“Did you give them your license number before we left?” Largo asked.

“I never spoke with anyone here,” Allison said. “Homeland Security must have it. I guess it’s efficient.”

“That doesn’t bother me the way it would the ACLU,” Largo said. “What gets me is that with all those eyes and intel, a bad guy still slipped through and poisoned the system. I’m with my nephew. The technology is helpful, of course. But you’ve got to feel danger to know it’s out there.”

SeaLions manager Gerr Brown had been informed that the visitor was going to do an onboard stakeout for Homeland Security. Just routine, he was told, more a drill for onshore personnel to keep tabs on Largo. Since that was not why Largo was here, and he wouldn’t be on duty for very long, it didn’t matter greatly if the information leaked. That was called a limited need-to-know or a flash-burn, an operation that was so quick local civilians became partial deputies in the process. The term had particular irony here. If Kealey was right and Largo failed, there wouldn’t be any people to leak anything.

Now Largo was dressed in the powder-blue uniform they had just borrowed from Joe Cuthbert. They could have gotten one that was freshly laundered but Largo wanted something that looked worn, had a trace of body odor on it—not just under the arms but behind the knees and below the waist. People saw when things were off, of course, but they also smelled when things were not right. The impact of familiar scent-types was to put people at ease. The opposite was true with unfamiliar scents. Largo had learned that lesson in France when personal gas from eating new rations was sufficient to tip him off to the location of an entire German unit. He circled wide around them instead of walking right into them.

An electronic tablet sat in Largo’s lap. He hadn’t been expecting to pick up a new skill set on this mission, but Joe Cuthbert had insisted he take it.

“If you’re doing a stakeout and someone sees you, they’re going to expect you to have it,” Cuthbert had said.

He was right, of course. So while Allison waited for a photo ID to be produced by the two-person human resources department, Largo learned how to work the device. His spy-brain immediately went into overdrive.
Can I use this to call the cell phone and block the signal? Will the electronics shut down the aircraft like they warned about when I flew down here? Will the signal accidentally trigger the nuke?

The river loomed big and alien as they neared. It was no longer scenery; it was a field of operations. It wasn’t just a surface; it was depth, it was flow, it was a multitude of boats. Largo filtered out most of it. All that mattered was the single target that was on the way.

The seaplane was, in fact, headed here. It was a little more than an hour from touchdown. Allison had remained in contact directly with General Clarke, who told them that the pilots had signaled the tower at Reagan National of their intent to set down on their previous route, which had dropped Saudi oil executives off for meetings. While the execs were gone, the seaplane went to the maritime refueling station at Reagan, which was across the river from Joint Base Anacostia-Bolling. Even Carlson, who disputed Kealey’s analysis, agreed that the 905-acre base, which supported 17,000 military and civilian employees, would be an ideal ground zero for a theorized attack. Clarke had gone to JBAB by chopper to organize a small assault team with Joint Base Vice Commander Mary Coppersmith. It was a small unit consisting of Air Force divers armed with magnetic mines and various flotation devices, and a quartet of sharpshooters, two on each side of the river. Four sleek speedboats were idling on the river waiting to take them to the seaplane if need be. Clarke was of the opinion that only a surgical strike could take out a nuclear weapon. Admiral Breen had concurred and the President had authorized what was an uncommon plan, even in the modern world: a military defense of American soil.

Allison dropped Largo off at the pier that serviced the customs brokers clustered along the river. He made his way to the SeaLions motorboat. As soon as he changed, Brown himself was going to meet Largo there and take him out.

“It’s what I did when I started out here as an intern,” he said proudly.

This seemed, to Brown, like the most exciting thing that had ever happened. As Allison said to Largo, everyone in D.C. wanted to be an insider. This was Brown’s turn on the carousel.

Allison waited until Brown arrived on a bicycle. He chained it to the rack and Largo popped the door.

“Good luck,” Allison said.

He seemed surprised by her presence. He was already in mission mode.

Largo turned and smiled. His face had previously had avuncular moments or looks of longing, of disappointment, of distress. This was the first time he seemed fully engaged.

“Thanks,” he said.

“You have the cell phone?”

“I have the cell phone. And the general’s number,” Largo assured her.

“You can wait in the car, you know.”

“I’d rather get the feel of the field,” he said. “It’s an elusive thing but important.” He put his hand on hers. “What I was saying before, about ‘feeling’ versus ‘knowing’—When you asked me down here, which was that?”

“A feeling,” she said.

He nodded. “Don’t ever forget that, Allison.”

He squeezed her hand and, tucking the tablet under his arm, stepped onto the landing.

 

 

The American coast.

For Mohammed, it was like seeing the shores of
jahannam
—hell itself. He felt anger boil up in his throat. He wanted to hurt these aggressors, the oppressors of his faith, the heart of Judeo-Christian arrogance. In a few minutes, he would.

He shut his eyes and sat back and prayed silently for God to guide and assist and then welcome him. He felt the plane descending. The propellers seemed louder, the speed faster. He opened his eyes and was surprised at how near the ground was. He saw the countryside, green and hilly, packed with structures of all kinds, ribboned with roads, stuffed with vehicles—all of them running on the sweat of the backs of his people. His stomach burned and he wanted to give voice to that rage; but he sat silently, watching, waiting. He felt the wonderful fullness of his inside jacket pockets. That was where he had placed the telephones along with the passport Yousef had made for him. The heavier phone, over his heart, was the one with the explosives. That was for the device. The other was to call the number, which he remembered as well as his own name.

Mohammed was told to put on his seatbelt. The aircraft was now moving so fast that the terrain that had seemed so dull and slow was whipping by. The plane slashed the water with such force that he would have been thrown from his seat were he not fastened to it. The hull cut deep in the water, sending spray up and out; then it rose as if the river were a springboard heaving it up. Still racing forward, the plane settled on the surface, bobbing left and right as it steadied on the pontoon under each wing. It continued to push ahead, the wide waters narrowing as it entered the river. The plane slowed swiftly, the throaty roar of the propellers increasing as the speed decreased.

Mohammed was breathing heavily, his heart slamming against his chin. The seatbelt suddenly felt tight, and he undid it. He patted his jacket pockets again, looked at the trunk across the cabin. It sat still and proud and unmoved by the multiple jolts of the landing. The aircraft slowed quickly, but Mohammed’s nerves remained electrified. He wished he could go to the trunk now, open it, take out the container. But the pilot had said to wait until after they had passed through the quick customs check and then moved the plane over to D.C. for refueling.

“We will leave you onboard while the plane refuels,” the copilot had said. “You will be alone to complete your mission.”

“And the customs agent?” Mohammed had asked. “What of him?”

“We will hand him a paper, he will look inside, he will leave,” the copilot had said. “That is all he ever does.”

“What if he does more?” Mohammed asked. He felt like he was being belligerent.
But there had been agents following me through Morocco. What if they had figured out more than anyone was expecting?

“To begin with,” the copilot had said, “if you are relaxed, there will be no problem. You must not seem agitated. But if the worst should occur, these men are typically older and not especially hale. You will strike him on the head and he will slip from the open hatch. The boatman will be below. I will assist him in the recovery of the agent as the plane taxis out of the way of other traffic. If we are caught, we will tell the authorities we did not see what happened, did not know you were waging jihad.”

Waging jihad
. The words returned like a forgotten faith, filling him. He was no longer practicing it, dreaming about an elusive goal. He was doing it.

He looked out the window at the boats that had given them room, at the people waving from their decks, at the pawns of
Shayt
n
who were soon to meet him in flames Mohammed would create.

Mohammed gulped down long, calming breaths.

“We are going to come to a stop,” the copilot said over the loudspeaker. “The agent will be aboard in less than five minutes.”

I will be ready for him
, Mohammed thought, popping the seatbelt and shutting his eyes one last time before they were shut for all time.

 

 

Largo hadn’t been on the water since he’d taken May to the New York World’s Fair in 1964. They rode the big, gently rocking boat at Disney’s
It’s a Small World
. Largo didn’t know what part of his brain remembered that; he wasn’t aware of it until he caught himself humming the damned song and thinking,
It’s not much of a world of laughter, is it?