Authors: James Barney
Locked!
“C'mon,” Jeremy pleaded as he fumbled with the deadbolt, tryingâunsuccessfullyâto unlock it. “
C'mon!
” He could hear Zafer coming down the hallway toward him.
“You're a fucking dead man!” Zafer yelled from the hallway.
Finally, the deadbolt slid into its recess and Jeremy shoved open the glass double doors and ran out into the cool night air. It was pitch-black outside, save for a few security lights.
He sprinted down the short walkway leading away from QLS's front entrance until it intersected with the sidewalk running the length of the five-unit building. There, for a split second, he hesitated, trying to decide which way to turn.
That proved to be a terrible mistake.
Instantaneously, the glass doors to QLS shattered with two successive blasts of gunfire from inside the building.
Jeremy's back exploded with a searing, white-hot pain. He'd been shot. He fell face forward onto the cold cement sidewalk. Unable to breathe. Unable to scream. But still alive.
Seconds later, he heard something behind him, near the front door. Shards of glass were falling and breaking. A scraping noise.
The gunman was coming through the front door!
The crunching of broken glass beneath the gunman's shoes.
He's coming toward me!
There was a loud, metallic
ka-chunk
of a round being chambered in the gunman's pistol.
He's coming to finish me off!
“You messed with the wrong guy today!” Zafer said.
Jeremy was already losing consciousness. But just before everything went black, he heard an unexpected noise.
Tallil Airbase, Central Iraq.
F
irst Lieutenant Stacey Choi pulled back on the joystick of her PPO console and studied the display on the console's video screen as it changed perceptibly. She was sitting in the air-conditioned Predator control room of the heavily fortified OPâ12 building on Tallil Airbase, a combined U.S. and British command in central Iraq, about 150 miles south of Baghdad. It was 5:30
A.M.
and quite dark inside the control space, except for the greenish glow of the six PPO video screens positioned strategically throughout the room.
The end of “major combat operations” in Iraq may have been announced back at home, but one would never know it at Tallil Airbase. Flight ops continued around the clock, just like always.
Seventy miles to the southeast, at an altitude of ten thousand feet, an unmanned MQâ1 Predator aerial reconnaissance vehicle responded obediently to Lieutenant Choi's command. Its airspeed dropped and its altitude began steadily decreasing. The long, spindly wings of the black reconnaissance drone sliced gracefully through the predawn sky, virtually invisible against the canopy of bright stars that stretched across the desert from one horizon to the other.
Back at the airbase, Lieutenant Choi watched unblinkingly as the monochromatic digital image of the sparse desert floor scrolled slowly down her screen like a waterfall. The image was digitally constructed using real-time information gathered by the Predator's downward-looking infrared sensors.
As a member of the 361st Expeditionary Reconnaissance Squadron, Choi was used to missions like this. Maneuver her MQâ1 Predator to spot X, fire up all the sensors and collect data for twenty or thirty minutes, then kill the sensors and guide the unmanned vehicle safely back home for recovery and preparation for its next mission. Sometimes she knew the purpose of the mission; other times she didn't.
Here, all she'd been told was that the mission was classified “Top Secret SCIâSERRATE” and that the real-time video feed was to be sent directly to a secure receiver in Arlington, Virginia, via encrypted Ku band satellite link.
Major “Hutch” Hutchinson, the squadron's operations officer, hovered just over Choi's shoulder, closely monitoring the Predator's video display with equal interest. Hutchinson was already on his third cup of coffee for the night. As ops officer, he rarely took the “mid-watch”âthe stretch between midnight and 6:00
A.M.
That unpopular duty was instead relegated mostly to junior officers. But, then again, the squadron didn't often get SCI missions assigned directly from Washington. Although he had no idea what “SERRATE” was all about, he knew it must be pretty damned important. To make sure everything went smoothly, he personally took the mid-watch and assigned the squadron's best PPO operator to the MQâ1 console. “How we doing?” he asked Lieutenant Choi.
“Fine, sir. I've got her heading two-two-zero true, one hundred knots, altitude coming down from one zero thousand feet. It should be on target in approximately twelve minutes.”
Hutchinson compared the digital readout of the Predator's latitude and longitude to the coordinates he'd received via Top Secret SCI message earlier that evening. 32.0593 N, 45.2966 E. It was almost on target. “Nice job,” he said, patting Choi lightly on the shoulder.
Several minutes later, Choi quietly announced, “Two minutes to target, sir.”
“Okay, start the uplink.”
B
ill McCreary sat alone at the Criticom console in the small clean room of the Logistics Analysis office, carefully inspecting the greenish imagery now cascading down the video screen in front of him. He was uncomfortable with “military-speak,” but he knew enough to understand that he was “zulu six delta” according to today's daily key codes. “Uh . . . foxtrot seven bravo, this is zulu six delta,” he said tentatively into the bright red handset, “I'm receiving the video feed now.”
McCreary stared at the monochromatic imagery for more than a minute, trying to figure out exactly what he was looking at. He was almost too embarrassed to admit that he couldn't make heads or tails of it. “Is that the ground I'm seeing?” he asked finally, forgetting entirely to use proper radio protocol.
“Zulu six delta, that's affirmative. You're looking at a live infrared video of the coordinates you requested. We can stay on station for approximately seventeen more minutes. Over.”
“Can you widen the angle?” McCreary asked, again ignoring radio protocol.
“Affirmative. Stand by, over.”
Thirty seconds later, the image on McCreary's video screen began to change noticeably, beginning at the top and cascading down the screen like a waterfall. As the screen became nearly filled with the new imagery, McCreary could now see recognizable features on the desert floor. He saw the distinct appearance of a road running down the left-hand side of the screen, with a small ridge or hill running alongside of it on the right. He quickly consulted his map and compared the coordinates on the screen to those he'd previously jotted down. “Can you widen the angle just a little more and look more to the right of that road?” he said into the handset.
“Zulu six delta, this is foxtrot seven bravo. Stand by. Over.”
After a short delay, the imagery on the screen once again began to change, cascading slowly from top to bottom. As it filled the screen, McCreary continued checking frenetically between the displayed coordinates on the screen and the coordinates scrawled on his map next to the site of the Tell-Fara temple.
Almost there . . . almost . . .
“There!
” McCreary shouted into the red handset. “Stay on that spot. Can you get any closer and get some better resolution?” He waited impatiently as the screen became a swirl of unrecognizable spaghetti. The Predator was now changing course and altitude, circling around for another pass.
Several minutes later, the voice of Major Hutchinson came back over the secure telephone. “Zulu six delta, this is foxtrot seven bravo. We're at two thousand feet. You should get better resolution on this pass. Over.”
McCreary watched with great anticipation as aerial footage of the Tell-Fara temple site began cascading down his screen. Major Hutchinson was right; the resolution was much better this time. Individual rocks and vegetation were now clearly visible. Ninety seconds later, the Tell-Fara archeological site filled the entire screen in superb detail.
But McCreary was confused. “Freeze the picture!” he barked into the handset. The picture froze. He studied it carefully, baffled.
Where was the temple? And what was that big, dark circle in the middle?
“Can you tell me what we're looking at?” he said into the handset.
There was a long pause. Finally, Major Hutchinson's voice came back on the line. “Zulu six delta, this is foxtrot seven bravo. It looks to us like a bomb crater . . . a pretty big one.”
McCreary put his hands behind his head and exhaled as he finally recognized what he was seeing on the screen. The entire temple site now consisted of one, gigantic crater. Rocks and debris were scattered in every direction.
Tell-Fara was gone.
Rockville, Maryland.
K
athleen leaned on the horn of her Subaru for several seconds. As she did, she accelerated across the Gateway parking lot toward QLS's front entrance, skidding to a halt just shy of the curb.
It was just before midnight. She had dropped Whittaker off at his apartment in DuPont Circle half an hour earlier and had been heading home when she decided, on a whim, to drop by the office to check on things. Mainly, she wanted to make sure Jeremy had actually gone home, like she'd told him to.
As her car's headlights washed over the front entrance of the building, however, her heart nearly stopped. The glass doors had been smashed, and a man in a black leather jacket was walking out at that very moment.
A burglar!
Several months before, one of the other units in the Gateway Office Park had been burglarized, and the police had never found the culprit.
Screeching to a halt in front of the curb, Kathleen didn't notice the body of Jeremy Fisher lying facedown on the sidewalk, just inches from her car. Nor did she notice the loaded Barak pistol in the right hand of the man exiting the building.
Simeon Zafer stopped in his tracks, evidently caught by surprise. Kathleen flipped on her high beams, shining them directly in Zafer's face. He shielded his eyes for a second, then quickly bolted to his right. Seconds later, he disappeared around the corner into a wooded area behind the building.
For a moment, Kathleen considered chasing him but immediately thought better of it.
He might have a gun
. Instead, she pulled her phone from her purse and quickly dialed 911. “There's been a burglary,” she said. “Please hurry!”
She waited in her car for several minutes, scanning the dark wooded area where the man had disappeared. Finally, she decided it was safe to get out. Stepping from her car, she nearly tripped over the body of Jeremy Fisher lying facedown on the sidewalk in a pool of blood.
“Oh my God!” she screamed, gazing in horror at Jeremy's limp, bloody body. “Jeremy!” She knelt down beside him and touched his shirt, which was soaked with blood. In the bright glow of her car's headlights, she could tell he was badly wounded. A crimson pool was still spreading out along the sidewalk. “Jeremy, can you hear me?” she said frantically.
Jeremy let out a weak, barely perceptible groan and moved his legs slightly.
“Jeremy,” she said, relieved that he was alive. “What happened?”
This time, there was no response.
She was afraid to move him because of the injury to his back. Her heart was beating furiously, her breathing shallow and constricted.
Who could have done this? What kind of sick bastard would do this?
She was bewildered and terrified all at once.
Frantically, she flipped open her phone and dialed 911 again. “I need an ambulance!” she screamed. “Hurry!” She gave the address and hung up.
T
en minutes later, the parking lot in front of QLS looked like a scene from a TV police drama. Three Montgomery County squad cars and an ambulance were parked at skewed angles, lights flashing. Three policemen with flashlights were combing the area, looking for signs of the shooter in the woods behind the building. Two other uniformed officers were inspecting the smashed double doors at the entrance to QLS.
Kathleen stayed by Jeremy's side as two EMTs carefully lifted him onto a stretcherâstill lying on his stomachâand transferred him into the ambulance. One of the EMTs was a young pimply-faced kid with red hair who looked no older than nineteen. The other was a chunky man in his late forties with gray whiskers and tattoos on both arms.
“I'm coming with him,” Kathleen announced as the EMTs were about to close the ambulance doors. Before they could respond, she climbed in. The two EMTs looked at each other and shrugged.
Seconds later, the ambulance pulled away from the crime scene, sirens blaring, with Kathleen, Jeremy, and the two EMTs in the back.
The EMTs went to work quickly on Jeremy's wounds. He'd been shot twice, once in the back of the ribs, a few inches from his spine, and once in the small of his back, just above his right buttocks.
“Get the IV bag set up,” said the older EMT to the younger one. “A thousand cc's of saline.” Seconds later, a bag of saline solution was draining into Jeremy's arm. The two EMTs busied themselves cutting away Jeremy's bloody shirt and dressing the wounds with white compresses as the ambulance raced through the empty streets of Rockville.
Kathleen watched anxiously as the EMTs struggled to keep Jeremy alive. “He's lost a lot of blood,” she heard the older EMT say under his breath. The man's tone was distressingly pessimistic.
Jeremy was lying facedown on the stretcher, his head turned awkwardly toward Kathleen. His eyes were open but glassy and dilatedâalmost lifeless. Kathleen wondered whether he was even conscious.
“Jeremy?” she said softly, leaning toward his face, which was partially obscured by an oxygen mask that lay loosely by his nose and mouth.
“Ma'am, please,” said the tattooed EMT gruffly, stepping in front of her.
A few seconds passed in silence as the EMTs continued applying compresses to Jeremy's wounds.
Then Jeremy made a gurgling sound.
“What?” Kathleen said excitedly. “What is it?” She put her ear close to his mouth.
“Sam . . .” Jeremy whispered slowly, laboring hard to speak, “pull . . .”
“Sam . . . pull? Sample? The DNA sample?”
“Uh . . . huh . . .”
“What about it?”
The tattooed EMT pushed Kathleen away. “Ma'am,
please
. We need some room here.”
A few seconds later, Jeremy spoke again in a whisper. His voice was weak and raspy. “Bro . . . kkkk . . . .”
“Broke? Broken? The sample is broken?” Kathleen was doing her best to decipher Jeremy's garbled utterances. “It broke?”
“Uh . . . huh.” Jeremy's voice was barely audible now. His eyelids were beginning to close.
“Blood pressure's below ninety palpable,” shouted the redheaded kid excitedly. “Heart rate one twenty.”
“Shit,” panted the older EMT. “We're losing him!”
“Jeremy!” Kathleen screamed. “Stay with us! We're almost there!”
Jeremy's eyes widened a bit as he tried once again to speak.
“Don't talk,” Kathleen said. “Just hold on!”
But Jeremy continued, forcing a series of gurgled, whispered syllables out of his mouth. “I . . . dint . . .” He paused, wheezing. “Clee . . . n . . .”
Kathleen cupped her mouth and shook her head in disbelief. Jeremy was dying in the back of an ambulance, and he was worried about
cleanup
? “Jeremy,” she said reassuringly, “it's okay. Don't worry about it. Just stay with us! We're almost there!”
But Jeremy had lost consciousness.
“Cardiac arrest!” bellowed the tattooed EMT.
“We're here!” announced the redheaded kid simultaneously, as the ambulance came to an abrupt halt.
“Please stay clear, ma'am,” said the older EMT. “We need to get him out of here.”
Kathleen pressed herself against the side of the van. There was a flurry of activity as the ambulance doors flew open and a team of people in light blue scrubs slid the stretcher out of the ambulance and attached it to a wheeled gurney. An exhausted resident took one look at Jeremy and shouted, “Multiple gunshot wounds to the back! Code! E.R. three,
stat!
”
Kathleen watched helplessly as Jeremy's bloody, shirtless body was wheeled down a short hallway and through a set of double swinging doors. Seconds later, he was completely out of sight. Her mind went numb.
This can't be happening.
“Ma'am?” said a deep voice from outside the ambulance.
Kathleen looked down and saw a uniformed police officer approaching.
“We didn't realize you were leaving the scene,” he said. “I'm going to have to ask you to come back with me.”
Kathleen nodded compliantly and exited the ambulance. She followed the police officer to his squad car.
F
ifteen minutes later, they were back in the parking lot in front of QLS. She got out of the police cruiser and gazed in disbelief at the smashed glass doors, the flashing police lights, and the general chaos swirling all around her.
What the hell was happening?
Six hours earlier, she'd been enjoying a beer with Bryce Whittaker in Annapolis. Now she was standing in the middle of a bloody crime scene. She had no idea whether Jeremy was alive or dead.
Suddenly, she heard a familiar voice behind her.
“Dr. Sainsbury?”
Kathleen turned to see Special Agent Wills standing nearby. He was well dressed, like before. Khaki pants, light pink shirt, fashionable tie, navy blue blazer, overcoat. Everything pressed, buttoned, and polished.
“I'm working with MCPD on this one,” Wills said.
Kathleen had no idea what that meant and didn't care. “I'm going inside,” she announced, turning her back on Wills and starting toward the building.
“Hold on a sec,” Wills said, grabbing her arm, “We're stillâ”
“I don't care,” Kathleen snapped, pulling her arm from his grasp. “This is my company. That was my colleague. And I'm going in there. If you want to stop me, arrest me.”
Kathleen marched up the walkway to the front door with Wills trailing close behind. “Dr. Sainsbury!” he called after her.
Kathleen ignored him.
A policeman was standing in front of the smashed door. Kathleen locked eyes with him. “Excuse me,” she said resolutely.
The policeman hesitated, glanced behind her at Special Agent Wills, and then slowly pushed open the broken door. Bits of broken glass beneath the door made a shrill, grinding noise as the door swung open, like nails on a chalkboard. The cop stepped aside to let Kathleen and Agent Wills through.
Kathleen proceeded directly to the lab, where two evidence technicians were busy taking pictures and picking up small objects from the floor and placing them in bags. The distinctive odor of ethyl alcohol was heavy in the air. She stood in the doorway and watched in disbelief.
“Hey,” said one of the technicians, “is this your lab?”
Kathleen nodded.
“Anything hazardous in here we should know about?”
Kathleen shook her head slowly, her mind still in a fog. “Some hydrochloric acid in those flasks over there,” she muttered. “Phenol, sulfuric acid, ethyl acetate, chloroform, butyl alcohol . . . that's about it.”
“How about this liquid on the floor,” said the technician. “Any idea what this is?”
Kathleen looked despairingly at the floor, where the remnants of a glass flask were scattered in a circle of shards near the grated floor drain. “Yeah,” she said despondently. “I do.” She stared in anguish at the mess on the floor.
Totally gone! Possibly the most important discovery of the century.
She felt like screaming and crying and punching the air all at the same time. Instead, she stood motionless, dumbfounded, shaking her head from side to side.
“And . . .” said the technician impatiently, “what is it?”
“It
was
a DNA sample,” she said with a heavy sigh. “Probably in ethyl alcohol and chloroform. Just wear rubber gloves and try not to inhale the fumes, and you'll be fine.”
“Thanks.” The evidence technician bent down and plucked several of the larger pieces of glass from the grated drain and dropped them into an evidence bag.
“They're going to run those for fingerprints,” said Agent Wills behind her, almost in a baiting tone. “Any idea whose they'll find?”
Anger flashed on Kathleen's face. “What, exactly, are you implying?”
“I'm not implying anything. It's just a question.”
Kathleen took a deep breath and exhaled, a bit ashamed of her outburst.
“Look, Dr. Sainsbury,” continued Wills soothingly, “I'm not here to harass you. I want to solve this crime as much as you do, okay?”
Kathleen nodded. “Sorry.”
“Now, is it possible that whoever broke in here was after what was in that flask?” He pointed to the shards on the floor.
Kathleen nodded that, yes, that was possible.
“You want to tell me what was in there?”
Kathleen stared at the remnants of the flask and rubbed her temples. Then she said quietly: “Mummy DNA.”