they had come.
Inside, she felt like she had walked into a gamer’s paradise: wall to wall flat screens, all displaying satellite or real time surveillance images from around the world. A constant flow of cool air swirled around her ankles, keeping the tech equipment well ventilated.
People milled about the large, high-ceilinged room, which was dimly lit and had personnel seated at workstations along the periphery, headsets on and monitors perched at eye level on articulating metal arms.
Uzi and DeSantos were across the way, in a separate glass-walled room that featured an oval conference table. When she walked in, they were talking with Troy Rodman, who was larger than the guy who had led her down the corridor and a shade darker than the rosewood surface peeking through the sheaf of papers scattered across it.
“Agent Rodman,” Vail said. “Good to see you again.” The last time their paths crossed they were in the back of a van in the outskirts of London, in deep trouble with the British authorities.
“Troy. Or Hot Rod. We’re a team. Takes too damn long to communicate when we’re on a mission if we’re saying Agent this, Agent that.”
“Got it.” She gestured to the papers. “What are you working on?”
“Compiled a list,” Uzi said, “of most likely groups to have the will, wherewithal, and balls to put together an operation like this.”
“The balls?”
“Not many have the guts to attack the United States—because we are gonna find out who did the deed, sooner or later. And then they’re gonna pay for it. A select few are willing to take it on the chin in exchange for the points they score in the initial strikes. It buys them a higher profile, makes recruitment easier.”
“It also requires patience,” DeSantos added, “and coordination—to gather and purchase the materials, bring in the people with the skill set to build these explosives. Not all of them have the resources and network to make this happen.”
“What about Ekrem’s intel?” Vail asked.
Uzi grabbed a handful of almonds from a bowl to his right and popped one in his mouth. “We didn’t want to get myopic by focusing on what he gave us—especially because we’ve got no idea if all, or some, or none of his info’s legit.”
DeSantos pulled a sheet from among the papers containing a scribble of handwritten names and handed it to Vail. She read: al Humat, al Shabaab, al Qaeda, al Qaeda Organization in the Islamic Maghreb, East Turkestan Islamic Movement, Hamas, Hezbollah, Islamic Jihad, ISIL/Islamic State, Islamic Jihad of Yemen— “Lists like this are okay, but we can make ourselves nuts looking at every Tom, Dick, and Harry.”
DeSantos snorted. “More like Abdul, Mohammed, and Akbar.”
Vail gave him a look that said, “I’m not in the mood.” “Point is, we have to focus on the most likely groups.”
“Like I said, that is the list of most likely groups.”
Oh. Lovely. “Look, I know you have doubts about this Ekrem guy, but maybe it makes sense to start there and see if we can eliminate Hamas and al Humat. Then we can move on to the rest on this list.”
Uzi nodded. “Makes sense to me.”
A trim and curvy woman in khakis with long brunette hair approached with a Bluetooth headset protruding from her ear. “Hector, I’ve got something you should hear.”
DeSantos introduced her as Alexandra “Alex” Rusakov. “On this case?”
“Yeah, NSA sent it over, priority one. They normally don’t get to intercepted communications this fast, but because of the potential for impending attacks it was elevated and they—”
“Audio or video?” Uzi asked.
“Audio,” Rusakov said.
Vail set down the list. “Let’s hear it.”
“It’s in Arabic. But I’ve got a translation.” She handed over a printed page.
“I’d like to hear the original recording,” Uzi said.
“Channel five,” Rusakov said as she reached over to the nearest panel and pressed a few keys.
Uzi slipped on a set of
Inside, she felt like she had walked into a gamer’s paradise: wall to wall flat screens, all displaying satellite or real time surveillance images from around the world. A constant flow of cool air swirled around her ankles, keeping the tech equipment well ventilated.
People milled about the large, high-ceilinged room, which was dimly lit and had personnel seated at workstations along the periphery, headsets on and monitors perched at eye level on articulating metal arms.
Uzi and DeSantos were across the way, in a separate glass-walled room that featured an oval conference table. When she walked in, they were talking with Troy Rodman, who was larger than the guy who had led her down the corridor and a shade darker than the rosewood surface peeking through the sheaf of papers scattered across it.
“Agent Rodman,” Vail said. “Good to see you again.” The last time their paths crossed they were in the back of a van in the outskirts of London, in deep trouble with the British authorities.
“Troy. Or Hot Rod. We’re a team. Takes too damn long to communicate when we’re on a mission if we’re saying Agent this, Agent that.”
“Got it.” She gestured to the papers. “What are you working on?”
“Compiled a list,” Uzi said, “of most likely groups to have the will, wherewithal, and balls to put together an operation like this.”
“The balls?”
“Not many have the guts to attack the United States—because we are gonna find out who did the deed, sooner or later. And then they’re gonna pay for it. A select few are willing to take it on the chin in exchange for the points they score in the initial strikes. It buys them a higher profile, makes recruitment easier.”
“It also requires patience,” DeSantos added, “and coordination—to gather and purchase the materials, bring in the people with the skill set to build these explosives. Not all of them have the resources and network to make this happen.”
“What about Ekrem’s intel?” Vail asked.
Uzi grabbed a handful of almonds from a bowl to his right and popped one in his mouth. “We didn’t want to get myopic by focusing on what he gave us—especially because we’ve got no idea if all, or some, or none of his info’s legit.”
DeSantos pulled a sheet from among the papers containing a scribble of handwritten names and handed it to Vail. She read: al Humat, al Shabaab, al Qaeda, al Qaeda Organization in the Islamic Maghreb, East Turkestan Islamic Movement, Hamas, Hezbollah, Islamic Jihad, ISIL/Islamic State, Islamic Jihad of Yemen— “Lists like this are okay, but we can make ourselves nuts looking at every Tom, Dick, and Harry.”
DeSantos snorted. “More like Abdul, Mohammed, and Akbar.”
Vail gave him a look that said, “I’m not in the mood.” “Point is, we have to focus on the most likely groups.”
“Like I said, that is the list of most likely groups.”
Oh. Lovely. “Look, I know you have doubts about this Ekrem guy, but maybe it makes sense to start there and see if we can eliminate Hamas and al Humat. Then we can move on to the rest on this list.”
Uzi nodded. “Makes sense to me.”
A trim and curvy woman in khakis with long brunette hair approached with a Bluetooth headset protruding from her ear. “Hector, I’ve got something you should hear.”
DeSantos introduced her as Alexandra “Alex” Rusakov. “On this case?”
“Yeah, NSA sent it over, priority one. They normally don’t get to intercepted communications this fast, but because of the potential for impending attacks it was elevated and they—”
“Audio or video?” Uzi asked.
“Audio,” Rusakov said.
Vail set down the list. “Let’s hear it.”
“It’s in Arabic. But I’ve got a translation.” She handed over a printed page.
“I’d like to hear the original recording,” Uzi said.
“Channel five,” Rusakov said as she reached over to the nearest panel and pressed a few keys.
Uzi slipped on a set of
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