Nemesis (FBI Thriller #19)(7)
The cathedral hadn’t suffered much damage at all, from what Foley saw, just some chips of concrete gouged from the huge front pillars. It was less important than the lives saved, but a huge relief nonetheless. The hundreds of millions of dollars spent on the restoration of one of New York’s greatest icons hadn’t been wasted. Father Joseph Reilly had saved St. Pat’s and the little boy had saved eight hundred people, himself included. Foley would be sure the President thanked both of them personally. He called the President to update him as he was hustled to a limousine on Sixth Avenue.
Time passed, only slowly now that the danger was over, and Foley thought, wasn’t that odd?
? ? ?
KELLY GIUSTI PUSHED her way through the crowd. Only forty-three minutes had passed since the terrorist attack at JFK and now the bomb at St. Pat’s. She knew from the information that had come through her earbud so far, there had been injuries, but nothing fatal. Giusti wondered if there was such a thing as a miracle. Then she felt a wash of rage so great she couldn’t catch her breath. So many people could have been killed, the incredible interior of the cathedral damaged, and dozens more killed at JFK. Giusti wasn’t Catholic, but that didn’t matter. She raised her eyes heavenward and thanked God for Father Joseph Reilly and Romeo Rodriguez and the FBI agent at JFK. She had Nasim Arak Conklin under wraps. She was going to wring him out. He had to know about both attacks; they were two halves of the whole. He had to know who had planned them.
RAYBURN HOUSE OFFICE BUILDING
WASHINGTON, D.C.
Wednesday, earlier in the day
Outside the third-floor office of Virginia congressman Burt Hildegard, George “Sparky” Carroll, a handsome young man dressed in his best suit, white shirt, and red tie, was wearing a face-splitting smile so wide his molars were on display. He was so pleased, he looked ready to dance, not that anyone would notice. The endless long hall before him seemed to go on forever, and was jammed with staffers, lobbyists, secretaries, visitors, and committee members pouring in and out of doors to add to the traffic, everyone on a mission. Mission. He liked the sound of that. Mr. George Carroll to Houston, I’ve completed my mission, ready for liftoff.
Sparky jostled against two big men who looked like bodyguards, hastily begged their pardon, and allowed himself a single small skip. But he could whistle, and as he wove his way through scores of people back down that endless institutional hallway toward an exit somewhere and a grumpy security guard, he did whistle, nice and loud, an old tune he knew, “I’ve Got the World on a String.”
No one paid him any mind. Everyone was hurrying somewhere, jostling one another, carried along by the sound of low conversations.
Thanks to Sparky’s intense study of his granny’s prized copy of The Power of Positive Thinking, he’d pumped himself up, made his presentation, and, glory be, Congressman Hildegard had signed on the dotted line. A contract for two years to cater all the congressman’s home district functions, a minimum of three dozen. He could hear his granddad’s old cash register cha-ching in his head.
Best of all, was he ever going to get laid tonight. He knew Tammy was probably carrying around her cell, waiting for his call. He’d buy her flowers, maybe lift a bottle of champagne from the storage room. Tammy had always believed in him, long before they’d gotten married four months before, a month before he’d inherited his father’s catering company, Eat Well and Prosper. He loved the name because his dad had raised him on Star Trek. His dad’s lasagna, now his lasagna, had made Eat Well and Prosper famous. Congressman Hildegard had even mentioned how much he’d loved Milt’s lasagna and his signature garlic toast, now Sparky’s lasagna and his signature garlic toast.
He was still whistling when he reached for his cell phone to call Tammy. He punched in her number, heard the beginning of the first ring, then her excited voice, “Sparky! What happened? Did the congressman sign our contract? Sparky, talk to me, tell me everything.”
He was grinning wildly into the cell as her words tumbled over one another, but before he could speak, a man ran right into him, shoving people out of the way, and pressed him back against the wall. Sparky felt a hit of cold as something sharp sank into his chest. It was more odd than painful, the feeling of his flesh splitting open, and then agony ripped through him, unspeakable, and he knew, he knew, he was dying. Sparky dropped his cell phone and began to slide down the wall. Vaguely he heard Tammy yelling his name. She sounded scared and he hated that. He heard people screaming around him. Then he didn’t hear anything at all.
GEORGETOWN
Late Wednesday afternoon
Savich heard about the terrorist incident at JFK a minute after it happened. He was in the Porsche, driving from Langley back to Georgetown after a meeting with some brass who wanted the FBI to pull their butts out of a bind. He liked to be owed favors, particularly by the CIA, and had complied.
He had only a minute to think about calling Sherlock, knowing she could have been in that security line at JFK, when his cell sang out Billy Ray Cyrus’s “Achy Breaky Heart.”
“She’s all right,” Ollie Hamish said immediately, his voice hyper-excited, “she’s okay, asked me to call you because she had to shut her cell down. Go home and watch the news. You won’t believe this, Savich,” and Ollie rang off before Savich could ask him what he wouldn’t believe.