WASHINGTON, DC

Please tell me you’re calling because you’ve got something good to report,” said Gary Lawlor.

From his office at the Pentagon, Lieutenant Colonel Sean Olson replied, “I’ll let you judge for yourself how good this is.”

Lawlor grabbed a pen. After finding a clean sheet of paper on his desk he said, “Go ahead.”

“The men your agent identified in New York City are definitely active-duty marines. At least they were as of their last fitness reports.”

“Which was when?”

“Eighteen months ago.”

“Eighteen months ago?” replied Lawlor. “Don’t the Marines conduct fit reps every twelve?”

“Yeah,” said Olson, “but for some reason the paper trail on these marines stops exactly eighteen months ago.”

“Any idea why?”

“Based on what you’ve told me, I think that’s when someone took them off book.”

“That would make sense,” said Lawlor. “Were you able to find out anything else?”

“They were all Marine Security Guard School graduates and had been doing embassy security.”

“Where?”

“Pretty much all over the place, but one thing they had in common was that they each had requested high-risk postings.”

“What do you mean by high-risk?”

“They wanted to serve embassies that were operating under very high threat levels, like Bogotá, Athens, Kabul, Baghdad…you name it, and these guys were not only willing, but wanted to go.”

“Can you place them together at MSG school or in one of the embassy postings? There must be a bigger connection.”

“That was one of the first things I looked for, but they all graduated from different classes and never served at the same embassy at the same time either.”

“So what’s that leave us with?” asked Lawlor.

“Those avenues in particular don’t leave us with anything, but I dug a little deeper and found something that may be helpful.”

“I’m all ears.”

Olson pulled a file up on his computer and said, “While they’re deployed, the Marines are under the operational control of the State Department, but their coordination, logistics, and training is still handled by the Marine Security Battalion out of Quantico, and here’s where it gets interesting. The battalion maintains a low-key group of force readiness officers responsible for assessing the strengths and weaknesses of Marine Security Guard details in over one hundred and thirty embassies and consulates worldwide.

“The same force readiness officer filed very complimentary reports for the three marines whose names you gave me, as well as at least fifteen more, all of whom had their trails wiped clean as of eighteen months ago.”

“You think this guy recruited these marines into whatever off-book operation we’re looking at in New York?”

“All I can say is that I think it’s worth checking into.”

Captain Bill Forrester’s small English Tudor was on a quiet street, in an equally quiet neighborhood in North Arlington, Virginia. Everything about it suggested it was inhabited by a normal, unassuming citizen-right down to the green-gray Subaru Outback parked in the driveway. What gave him away as something more were the Marine Corps and POW flags hanging from a pole above the front door.

Parking his car in the street and walking up the flagstone pathway, Gary Lawlor hoped the Subaru meant that somebody was home. He rang the doorbell and waited.

Moments later a solidly built man in his mid-fifties with salt-and-pepper hair cut high and tight, answered the door and said, “Can I help you?”

Gary raised his ID and said, “Captain Forrester?”

“Yes?” replied the marine.

“I’m Agent Lawlor from the Department of Homeland Security. I’m investigating the terrorist attacks of this afternoon and I need to ask you a few questions.”

“Why would you want to talk to me?”

“May I come inside, please?”

Forrester opened the screen door and showed Lawlor inside to a bland kitchen with cheap cabinets and yellow wallpaper. He pointed to a table with a view of the backyard and told his visitor to have a seat. “Can I get you something to drink?” he asked.

“I’ll take a beer if you’ve got it,” replied Gary. “It’s been a long day.”

Forrester didn’t know what to make of a Federal agent having a beer on company time, but something told him this DHS operative was not all he seemed to be. “You want a glass?” he asked as he withdrew two beers from the fridge.

“Please.”

Forrester poured the beers, handed one to Lawlor, and said, “What can I do for the Department of Homeland Security?”

Gary slid the printouts of three service photos Olson had e-mailed him across the table. “Do you recognize these men?”

The captain studied the photographs for a moment, slid them back across the table, and said, “No, I don’t.”

“If you need a little more time, that’s okay.”

“I’m pretty good with faces, Agent Lawlor. If I say I don’t recognize someone, I don’t recognize them.”

“From your glowing assessments, I would have thought these marines unforgettable.”

The man was toying with him, and Forrester didn’t like it. “What do you want?”

Removing the rest of the photos and sliding them across the table, Lawlor replied, “I want to talk about the recruiting operation you’ve been running out of the Marine Security Battalion.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I’ve read assessment reports for each of the marines in those pictures and they were all written by you.”

Forrester took a long swallow of beer, using the time to carefully craft his response. As he set the glass down on the table he looked at Lawlor and said, “I assess hundreds of marines every year. So what?”

“Not like these. These marines were exceptional, and eighteen months ago the ones you gave the highest marks to dropped off the grid.”

The captain rolled the base of his glass on the tabletop and fixed his guest with a steady gaze. “You’re talking to the wrong guy.”

“Why? Because you really don’t know what I’m talking about or you were just following orders? Captain Forrester, I don’t have a lot of time, so I’m going to cut to the chase. Of those marines, the first three I showed you are dead. They were killed today, we think by the same group responsible for blowing up the bridges and tunnels in New York, and something tells me that more marines are going to die very soon if you don’t help me out.”

309 EAST 48TH STREET

NEW YORK CITY

Satisfied?” asked Mike Jaffe as he turned off the monitor.

Brad Harper was stunned. “So those were female DIA operatives dressed to look like his kids?”

“Why do you think the camera never made it into the bathroom until their heads were already bent over the edge of the tub?”

“Why didn’t you just tell me?”

“Because you wouldn’t have given it the same reaction,” replied Jaffe. “It was perfect. Worthy of an Academy Award.”

“But I wasn’t acting.”

“I know. That’s why it was so perfect. Mohammed would have smelled the good cop/bad cop routine a mile away. Right now he thinks you’re terrified of my methods. If he thinks you believe I’m unstable and will stop at nothing, then he’s going to start believing it too.”

Harper didn’t like being used.

“So are we good here?” asked Jaffe in response to the marine’s silence.

Harper wasn’t quite sure how to respond to that.

“Are we good?” repeated Jaffe, slowly and deliberately.

The subtext was obvious. Jaffe wanted to know if Harper was going to continue to play ball, or if he had some sort of a problem that needed to be addressed. Harper had some serious doubts as to how Jaffe might handle any dissension. After all, the man had pointed a loaded pistol at his head, point-blank.