Part One

  Chapter

  1

  The District of Columbia is a place of contradictions and secrets. Pockets of extreme poverty where troubled folks shoot up on street corners are only a brisk walk away from gourmet restaurants where the price of an evening meal would cover the cost of a month’s groceries for my daughter and me. And the residents of the District, the hub of American representative government, have no real congressional representation.

  Those are the contradictions. But it’s the secrets—written and geographical—that are the coin of the realm here in DC, and I’m entering one of these secret places along with my best friend, a man I consider my brother, Dr. Alex Cross.

  We’re near Arlington, Virginia, at a Homewood Suites by Hilton, a nice-looking small hotel in the midst of a score of other nice-looking small hotels in one of a score of anonymous strip malls in the area, but this place is different.

  In the small lobby, there’s a coffee service and an unmanned check-in counter with a little bell. I say, “We got time for coffee?”

  “Won’t make a very good impression if you walk in carrying a go-cup,” Alex says.

  “It’s been a rough day and I could use a pick-me-up,” I say. “And when did I ever care about making a good impression?”

  That causes Alex to smile. We go down a short hallway, passing a sign reading EMPLOYEES ONLY, to a metal door with a keypad lock. Alex punches in the combination, then holds the door open for me, and we walk three flights down to a subbasement. There, Alex punches in another series of numbers on a second keypad lock, and after the click, I open the heavy metal door and hold it for Alex. He goes in and I follow, and we both stop at a checkpoint.

  Three unsmiling men wearing green tactical fatigues, body armor, and black knit caps stare at us. Two of them are holding automatic weapons; the third is standing behind a plain wooden lectern stacked with papers and folders. He consults a list, and a smile appears on his fierce face.

  “Dr. Cross,” he says to my old friend. “My daughter is reading your latest book in her criminal justice course at Georgetown. Something about dark minds, dark desires. Is that it?”

  Alex nods. “That’s right. Dark Minds, Dark Desires: Case Histories of the Criminally Insane. What does she think of it?”

  “She says it’s informative and well written, but twice it has given her nightmares. You go ahead, Dr. Cross.”

  I’m next and the man’s frown returns. “Name?”

  “Detective John Sampson,” I say. “Metro Police.”

  He makes a check mark on the list. “ID, please, and place your hand on this biometric pad. And I’ll need you to sign this pad over here too, for signature comparison.”

  All of this means I’m a couple of minutes behind Alex when I enter a low-ceilinged room in the center of which is a large polished wood conference table surrounded by comfortable chairs, each one filled by Someone Important. True to the way of DC, if a meeting is set for eight p.m.—like this one—certain folks will arrive at seven p.m. to ensure they get good places at the table.

  Alex and I make do with two of the less comfortable chairs along the near wall. We both get looks from the important people as we settle in, Alex because he’s Alex, and me because I’m a Black man who stands six feet nine inches. That has its advantages when I’m working the streets of DC as a homicide detective, but it’s a royal pain in the ass on other occasions, like when I’m trying to get comfortable and keep a low profile in a crowded conference room.

  This room is equipped with computers operated by uniformed army and air force personnel and three large, ceiling-mounted screens, each one displaying the seal of the president of the United States.

  I’ve learned from my contacts in the Metro Police and from people I’ve worked with in my army and reserve service over the years that there are multiple White House situation rooms scattered around the Beltway. If all the top officials of the U.S. government are huddled together in a room under the White House, well-armed enemies can drop a single bunker-buster bomb or tactical nuke, and that’s it, the United States is leaderless.

  A side door opens and we all stand up when President Lucas Kent enters and takes a seat at the table. He’s followed by General Wayne Grissom, chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, and a female army colonel. A couple of seconds later, the president’s chief of staff, Helen Taft, follows and takes a chair next to the president. Seeing the president isn’t all that exciting for me—I learned a long time ago that presidents are like most men and women, and as politicians, they will always break your heart—but I’m pleased to see General Grissom take a seat on the other side of the president.

  Grissom and I served in the army at the same time, probably breathed the same air and dust while stationed in Afghanistan and Iraq, and he still carries himself with the bearing of a working-class guy who fought his way up through the ranks and who saw his first duty as protecting his troops in all branches. If there is a service ribbon for kissing political asses, it’s notably absent on General Grissom’s dress uniform. It’s good to see him here, especially considering what’s going on in the United States three stories above us.

  The president says, “Folks, let’s get right to it. Random terrorist attacks against this country began this past April and continued throughout the summer. A while back, I directed General Grissom to start gathering and collating information from the agencies represented here.” The president glances at General Grissom, then continues. “To cut to the proverbial chase, ladies and gentlemen, these attacks are just the beginning. We have a week to stop them or our nation and its people will be crippled and might never recover.”

  Chapter

  2

  I watch the general’s face. One of these terrorist attacks occurred this morning on F Street, right outside the General Services Administration Building. A red Toyota RAV4 stuffed with C-4 and roofing nails exploded, killing eight and injuring thirty-four. The bomb wasn’t designed to take down the building, although a number of its windows were blown out by the force of the explosion. No, it was designed to scythe down government workers streaming into the building’s lobby, none of whom knew that those would be the last steps they would ever take.

  Like it had in two other recent car bombings in DC, the FBI bigfooted its way into the MPD’s investigation and took over. When the FBI arrives, that’s it. Protocol allows them to be the lead agency in terrorist attacks. As a homicide detective for the Metro Police, I should still be there at the car-bombing crime scene, but an urgent text took me away from F Street to this hidden bunker.

  I fold my arms. There’s a slight murmur from the principals sitting close to the president, among them the secretaries of state, defense, and homeland security. Also at the table are representatives from the FBI, the NSA, and the CIA as well as assorted handlers and assistants. I’m pleased to see a familiar face among the bunch: FBI supervising special agent Ned Mahoney. Alex and I have gotten to know him well over the years.

  The president says, “This is not a time for turf battles, withholding information, or nursing old grudges. General Grissom has my full support to take command of the situation, and I expect everyone in this room to give him his or her complete cooperation. If you feel you cannot work with General Grissom, I want your resignation within the hour. General?”

  “Thank you, Mr. President,” he says. “First, I’d like to thank the intelligence and law enforcement agencies who have cooperated with me over these past few months. And as for those who haven’t returned my phone calls yet, an hour after this meeting will work just fine.” He turns to a female officer. “Colonel?”

  The colonel’s name tag says KENDRICKS. From a soft black leather briefcase, she pulls out a sheaf of papers. She splits them into two stacks and sends a stack down each side of the table. Each person takes one, and there are none left for those of us sitting in the cheap seats.

  Grissom says, “This is a single-sheet briefing on the terrorist attacks—the details, locations, and resulting casualties. You’ll see that each page is numbered. When this meeting is over, Colonel Kendricks will ensure that each sheet is returned.”

  The two men in front of us are leaning into each other, talking in low tones, and I get up and put my hands on their shoulders and say, “I bet you fellows won’t mind sharing, right?” Before they can answer, I pluck the sheet from one man’s hands and return to sit next to Alex.

  He whispers, “And that’s why we love having Big John around.”

  I say, “You love having Big John around because when we go out, I pay your bar tab.” I hold the sheet of heavy white stock, which has only the insignia of the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, no TOP SECRET or NOFORN or CLASSIFIED stamps or stickers. Just a list.

  It starts this past April 15—Columbus, Georgia, a sniper attack downtown; six killed, fourteen wounded.

  Alex and I look at the list of familiar and less familiar city names: San Francisco; Los Angeles; Leavenworth; Tulsa; Arapahoe, Nebraska; Manchester, Vermont; and on and on.

  A woman’s voice cuts through the chatter. “Excuse me, General, a moment?”

  The room falls silent as Secretary of Homeland Security Doris Landsdale speaks. “I’m curious why you’re keeping this briefing sheet so closely guarded. These attacks have been in the news all spring and summer.”

  Grissom says, “Madam Secretary, agreed, but this is the first time we’ve identified all of these attacks as coming from a single source.”

  Landsdale says, “You really think the terrorists are unaware that we know this?”

  Next to the president, his chief of staff smiles slightly, like she’s in agreement with Secretary Landsdale.

  The general’s voice is ice-cold calm when he says, “Some of these attacks are still considered one-offs by the public, industrial accidents or random crimes. Like the school-bus shooting in Los Angeles. The initial investigation and news reports said the school bus got caught in the cross fire between two feuding street gangs. We now know that is not true.”

  Alex takes a breath and I know exactly what he’s envisioning: his younger son, Ali, in a similar school bus in the midst of gunfire.

  And I know that’s on Alex’s mind because I’m thinking almost the same thing: My sweet seven-year-old, Willow, in a school-bus seat, feet not quite touching the floor, excitedly talking to a friend; a vehicle pulls up, its windows roll down, and black barrels of automatic weapons emerge…

  Focus, I think, stop with the nightmares.

  One man nattily dressed in an expensive-looking gray suit and a Harvard tie says, “General, at the beginning of your presentation, you said we have a week. What does that mean?”

  Grissom says, “A massive attack on Washington will occur in approximately one week. And from what we’ve learned so far, it’s going to make the January sixth attacks look like a junior-high dance.”

  Chapter

  3

  While that news sinks in, Grissom says, “General Martinez, tell us the latest from the NSA and how you’ve determined the deadline we’re facing.”

  A slim Hispanic woman in a dark blue suit answers. “We were called in after the third terrorist attack, the dual car bombs in Kansas City and St. Louis. In those cities, we worked with the respective FBI offices and their terrorism task forces. We did a data sweep within a certain radius of the bombing—e-mails, texts, cell phone data, internet traffic patterns, and GPS locations. We found an increase in encrypted data from the cell phone towers nearest to the bombing locations about an hour before the attack. We went back to the previous two terrorist attacks, Columbus and then DC, and found the same pattern.”

  Grissom says, “But nothing useful was determined.”

  Martinez shakes her head. “No. The attackers used onetime cipher pads and burner phones. But in the minutes before every attack, there was an uptick in encrypted data using disposable phones. It appears that those setting up the attacks were waiting for final orders to proceed.”

  A well-dressed woman sitting across from Martinez asks, “What does that tell us, General?”

  “The attackers are sophisticated, well financed, and have deep resources. They also have allies that communicate on chat sites on the dark web. On six separate occasions, the same time frame has popped up in messages we’ve decrypted, and what it tells us is we have approximately seven days before the attack.”

  Grissom says, “Tony, what does the CIA have?”

  A heavyset man with thick glasses and thin black hair combed carefully over a bald spot says, “Thanks, Wayne. I’ll be brief. The information we’ve developed from various HUMINT and technical sources is that there are at least three entities funding these organizations. The funding is in cryptocurrency and travels the dark web through a number of cutouts. Nothing we can take to a court of law, but we believe the sources are in Russia, China, and Iran, with some assistance from Mexican drug cartels.”

  There’s another fifteen minutes or so reviewing investigative methodology, and then—

  “Very good,” Grissom says, glancing at his watch. “We’ll reconvene at nine a.m. tomorrow and I expect your recommendations for plans of action. You’ll be informed later of the meeting’s location. Mr. President?”

  I stand up and Alex’s hand brushes my wrist like he wants me to stay seated, but I won’t have it. I’ve made a lot of near-career-ending moves over the years facing off against my higher-ups, but if it’s important enough, I don’t care.

  “Sorry to interrupt, General Grissom, Mr. President,” I say, “but before this meeting adjourns, we need to address a major point of concern.”

  As if controlled by some hidden puppeteer, every head in the room swivels toward me. Alex whispers, “John…”

  I go on. “With all due respect, all of you have done your best to work out who’s behind these attacks and why they’re happening, but there’s one huge issue you’re all missing.”

  Grissom says, “And who are you, sir?”

  “Detective John Sampson, Metro Police,” I say. “Representing the department here tonight.”

  The president says, “Is that Dr. Alex Cross sitting next to you?”

  “Yes, Mr. President,” Alex says. “I’m also representing Metro Police.”

  Grissom says, “For real? Where is the chief?”

  I think, The chief is busy meeting with the mayor, desperate to keep his job after he promised that DC crime rates would come down, but the latest crime stats show the exact opposite happened. I say, “He’s not available due to sensitive circumstances, General. Dr. Cross and I were sent here as trusted personnel to represent DC Metro. To speak plainly, General Grissom, Mr. President, you’ve not sought our opinion and input, but you’re going to get it now.”

  The president is quiet. General Grissom is looking straight at me. Some of the older DC hands around the table are smiling slightly, enjoying seeing somebody immolate his own career.

  The president says, “Go on, Detective.”

  “Dr. Cross and I are representing more than our police department,” I say, keeping my voice firm and my words to the point. “We’re also representing the nearly seven hundred thousand people who live in the District, scores of whom have been killed by these terrorists, and you folks are ignoring them and their safety.”

  Chapter

  4

  Voices speak out and there’s cross talk, and I remain standing, looking defiant. Doris Landsdale, secretary of homeland security, breaks through the chatter.

  “Detective Sampson, you are way, way out of line,” she says, leaning over the conference table so I can see the anger on her flushed face. “For the past hour, all of our activities here have been directed to stopping this upcoming attack—whatever it is—and in doing so, we’re protecting your people.”

  I shoot back at her, “My people happen to be American citizens, and all I’ve heard here is cold-blooded analyses of data packets, cryptocurrency, electronic surveillance, and so forth. No one’s talking about the steps that should be taken right now.”

  “Like what?” a male attendee demands. “Should we issue a general warning and spread panic? Scare the crap out of people?”

  “That might be a start,” I tell him. “No one here can say for certain what kind of attack is coming, only that it is coming. Right? Could be a dirty bomb, anthrax, a series of car bombs—hell, even paramilitary guys raiding the Capitol or another federal building. And what have you done?”

  Secretary Landsdale says with a sneer, “Have you been sleeping the past hour or so, Detective?”

  I feel a flash of the old anger, buried way deep but still there, at being thought lazy and shiftless because of what I look like. I say, “Certainly not, ma’am. I took note of everything, the discussion of all this gadgetry, the analyses, and the dark web searches. But I didn’t hear word one about protecting our people. About alerting the hospitals. Preparing shelters. Activating the National Guard. Seeing if we can get resources from the state police in Virginia and Maryland. Being proactive for once.”

  “Is that all?” Landsdale says. “How about erecting barbed-wire fences around the entire District? Setting up armed checkpoints? Closing down the schools? Telling people to huddle and be scared?”

  “I’m not talking about being scared,” I say. “I’m talking about the poor kids, moms, and dads out there, from Anacostia to Woodley Park, none of them knowing there are targets on their backs.”

  She starts to reply and other members of the task force join in, but the president raises a hand.

  “Detective Sampson makes a number of good points,” he says. “General, the DC National Guard can be activated only on my orders, right?”