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.”

  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.”

  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?”

  “That is correct, sir,” the general replies. “The National Guard in other states and territories can also be activated only by their respective governors.”

  “Then I’ll make it happen when it’s necessary,” he says. “Got that, Helen?”

  His chief of staff says, “Gotten, sir.”

  He says, “As to the other suggestions, Doris, make those happen as well.”

  The secretary of homeland security gives me a look with flamethrower eyes; if she could, she’d cut me down right now and leave a pile of ash. “Absolutely, Mr. President,” she says reluctantly.

  He stands up, meaning the meeting is over. “General, tomorrow at nine a.m.?”

  “Yes, sir,” he says. “I’ll let the participants know the location.”

  “Very well,” the president says, and suddenly he looks tired and overwhelmed. “Bless you all.”

  Once the president leaves, the briefing papers get passed up to the front of the room, where they are carefully collected by Colonel Kendricks. Alex, at my side, says in a low voice, “Guess that’s what they mean about speaking truth to power, eh?”

  “Somebody had to do it, Alex.”

  He gently slaps me on the back. “Good job. You beat me by about sixty seconds.”

 

 

  James Patterson, Alex Cross Must Die

 

 

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