“Okay, now before I blow the door,” Tillman said, “our legal department requires that we disclose to you the effect of the blast. Since you are in an enclosed room, the overpressure will have no way to dissipate, causing a fairly substantial shock wave to propagate through the safe room. This will burst your eardrums along with those of your lovely daughters. What I’m going to recommend that you do prior to detonation is open your mouths and stick your fingers in your ears. This will at least give your daughters a fighting chance to avoid becoming profoundly deaf for the rest of their lives. The downside, though, is that there’s also a substantial chance of causing pulmonary hemorrhaging. That could cause you and your daughters to drown in blood produced by your own lungs. I’ve seen that happen and I can tell you, it’s a fairly horrible way to die.” He pressed a detonator into the end of the ribbon charge. Then he walked back and stood in front of the camera. “Or you could come out and we could have a civilized conversation.”

There was a long pause. “You’re using us to get to my wife.”

Tillman didn’t know what he was talking about. But there was no percentage in confessing his ignorance at this point, and he understood that the answer he was looking for involved the man’s wife. “I’m sure your wife would not want you to sacrifice your children for her. And all I can do is give you my word that I’ll do my level best to keep you and your girls alive. But unless you open the door, I’ll have to blow it. And if that happens . . .” Tillman looked into the camera, allowing the unarticulated threat to linger for a moment. “One way or another, you and the girls are in this thing, and you’re not holding any cards.” He spread his hands. “Right now your only play is to open the door.”

Tillman waited for a moment. Nothing happened.

“Oh, and before you come out with that gun in your hand and start shooting,” Tillman said, “just understand that I shoot better than you do. And so do the people downstairs. Shooting your way out is not going to work either.”

After a moment, there was a soft click. Then the door opened. A soft-looking man with thinning hair looked tentatively out into the all I room, squinting slightly.

Tillman nodded. “Smart move,” he said. “Now bring the girls and sit on the bed.”

The man emerged, his trembling hands draped protectively around the shoulders of his two little girls.

The older of the two girls was crying, and it was the younger one who said, “You’re a bad man.” She glared at him with coffee-brown eyes.

“I am,” Tillman said, winking at her. “But not as bad as you think.” He clapped his hands. “Okay, everybody on the bed. We’re gonna play a game.”

As the frightened family complied, Tillman felt his legs go weak, and his skin moisten with cold perspiration. Would he have breached the door? When he searched his heart, he wasn’t sure. He might have. And if he had, God only knew what all that C4 would have done to those little girls.

Officer Millwood returned to his patrol car and drove down the street. But something about his encounter bothered him. The woman had not seemed right—the strange color of her eyes, the paleness of her face, her eagerness to get him out of there. He pulled over to the curb and called up dispatch on his radio. He had written down the Honda’s plates and wanted to run a vehicle check.

He was waiting for dispatch to respond when he felt the distinctive metal end of a gun barrel against his neck.

“Tell her you were just checking in and put the radio down,” said Gideon from the backseat. “Otherwise, I will shoot you.”

Millwood did as he was told.

“Good. Now slide over on the seat, and keep your hands where I can see them.”

The officer followed Gideon’s directions.

“You may as well get comfortable,” Gideon said. “You and I may be here for a while.”

38

WASHINGTON, DC

Dale Wilmot drove the white van to the service entrance of the Richard B. Russell Senate Office Building on the southern side of the mall, showed his ID to the Capitol Police officer, then waited for a second officer, who made a careful check of the vehicle’s underside with a mirror fixed to a long pole.

When the check was finished, Wilmot pulled into the grim fluorescence of the lot and parked in the numbered space the officer had assigned him. Wilmot considered the irony of being assigned a spot in an otherwise empty parking lot, until he saw the three-man security detail waiting for him there. The team included a pair of Secret Service agents and a third man in tactical gear with a German shepherd on a leash.

There were no weapons in the van. Wilmot knew that to move forward, his and Collier’s credentials needed to be clean. And they were. Their IDs came directly from the human resources department of the Arlington office of National Heat & Air, the company Wilmot controlled. It had been explained eight months earlier to the secretary that Mr. Wilmot might be doing a surprise inspection of some of his facilities, and siniiiiiiiiof tho he and his executive assistant needed corporate IDs and the appropriate government clearances. Any calls to the company to check the validity of the information presented to the Secret Service would be verified.

Wilmot and Collier both carried Virginia driver’s licenses, which led back to property owned in their names, all taxes and fees paid legitimately, credit card bills received and paid on time for a great many months. Every tool and manual and material in the truck was 100 percent legitimate, purchased by the company, serial numbers verifiable and matching and traceable.

Wilmot and Collier had both attended HVAC school in Coeur d’Alene almost a year ago so that if anybody asked them any questions about heating and air-conditioning systems, they would be able to talk just like pros. They had also studied at length the system they were about to sabotage and knew its workings inside and out.

“Sir, please step out of the vehicle,” one of the Secret Service agents said. Both agents were intensely clean-cut and looked like they might have been scholarship athletes in college, and both wore blue rubber gloves. While the canine guy kept an eye on Collier, Wilmot was thoroughly frisked. Collier came next. There were no we’re-just-doing-our-job pleasantries, no banter or discussions of the weather. The Secret Service didn’t believe in that shit.

Wilmot appreciated the kind of commitment they displayed. Their job was to protect the president and Congress, not to make you feel good. Wilmot felt like he was floating above himself, looking down. He made no attempt to control his emotions.

Notwithstanding the fact that he appreciated the professionalism of the agents, they pissed him off. He didn’t like being searched, didn’t like being told what to do. And he saw no reason to pretend he did. You didn’t want to arouse suspicions, but you didn’t want to come off like you were pretending either.

Once the frisking was done, the K9 guy asked Collier to open the rear of the truck. Wilmot felt a pleasurable pressure in his temples. Now they’d see whether Collier was as smart as he said he was. He claimed that the cleaning process he’d used on the “refrigerant” tanks would make it entirely impossible for the dogs to smell the cyanide.

“Bring out whatever tool you’ll need,” the dog handler said.

Collier rolled the steel tool caddy to the rear of the van, and then together he and Wilmot lowered it to the pavement. Wilmot noticed that Collier’s fingers were shaking a little. There was nothing that could be done about that. Collier was who he was.

“You’re planning on taking that whole thing?” the dog handler said.

“Yep,” Wilmot said.

The dog handler looked at the senior agent, who shook his head. “Then we’ve got a problem. Pressurized tanks aren’t permitted.”