Nemesis (FBI Thriller #19)(8)
Savich felt fear for her swallow him. No, Ollie said she was okay. What had happened? He speed-dialed Sherlock, got voice mail.
He heard about the explosion at St. Patrick’s Cathedral as he pulled into his driveway. It was like the newspeople didn’t know which one to talk about first, both were so horrific. They had few specifics except that no one, miraculously, had been seriously injured, either at JFK or at St. Patrick’s.
When Savich ran through his front door, he heard the TV and slowed. He didn’t want Sean to see him scared out of his mind. But Sean wasn’t around, only Gabriella, and she was glued to the TV.
She said, never looking away from the screen, “All the news stations are going back and forth with video from both JFK and Saint Pat’s. Nearly everyone there took a video with their phone, plus all the security tapes of both attacks. There’s even footage shot from Rockefeller Center looking down on Saint Patrick’s Cathedral, all the people hurrying out, the priest throwing the bomb, all the mayhem after the bomb exploded.” Gabriella looked up, saw he was pale as death. “No, no, Sherlock’s okay, Dillon. Don’t worry. Sean’s playing football with Marty at her house. I didn’t want him to get scared watching this.” She gave him a manic grin. “Wait till you see her—Sherlock’s a hero. They’re showing her picture. You won’t believe what she did.” She flipped the channel and the two of them watched a priest throwing a backpack, saw it explode in midair, saw the priest and a cop hurled back with the power of the blast, and then the station switched over to JFK and he saw a picture of his wife.
He was shaking as he listened, couldn’t help it, until his cell phone blasted Billy Ray Cyrus again. It was Sherlock. “Dillon, I’m okay, I promise. I was with the FBI agent when she got a call about a bomb at Saint Pat’s and she took off. The airport will reopen, when, I’m not sure, but I’ll call you when I’m ready to get on a plane home. I’ve got to go, Dillon. My cell will be on voice mail. Text me if you need to reach me.” And she punched off.
He closed his eyes against the enormity of what could have happened. She’s all right. He turned back to the TV when the anchor began talking about her again. He saw her in real time being escorted out of a conference room, walking, talking, unhurt. Dozens of media microphones surrounded her as she walked out of the terminal; they yelled out questions, asking how she felt, what had happened in there, what she’d said to the terrorist, what he’d said to her, although they had to know already, calling her a heroine, but she only shook her head and kept walking. Then she paused, faced all of them, and said, “Everyone did their jobs today and thankfully no one was seriously hurt. That’s all I’m free to say now. There’s an ongoing investigation, and an FBI spokesperson will answer all your questions when they can.”
The media stayed with her, nearly on top of her, shoving their mikes in her face. Three men in dark suits, obviously FBI agents, finally pushed them away and escorted Sherlock to a waiting Crown Vic, past all the media, the cameras, and the gawking passengers who were huddled outside the terminal. Through it all, she stayed expressionless, except when a reporter yelled out if she believed the bomb at St. Patrick’s Cathedral was connected to the grenade attack here at JFK. Her face went pale. Her expressive eyes went from stark to emotionless as she closed it down and said nothing, kept moving. As he watched the whole incident at the airport on a cell-phone video a passenger had posted, he felt a gamut of emotions, staring with rage at what he saw happening, to roiling fear when Sherlock engaged the terrorist, and he actually heard what she said to him, then relief so profound he shook with it. And pride, he could have burst with pride. It was over and she’d survived.
He watched the Crown Vic pull away. Where were they taking her?
Every TV station was going back and forth from JFK to St. Pat’s, newspeople on scene, so excited to be at ground zero, they were nearly stuttering. They had huge news stories to tell right on top of each other. Naturally, they tied the two incidents together—it was a time-honored terrorist strategy, wasn’t it? To get the first responders out of the way of the prime target, St. Patrick’s Cathedral? If it hadn’t been for the bravery of Father Joseph Reilly, a former Gulf War vet turned priest—and on and on it went. He saw Romeo Rodriguez, the altar boy who’d found the bomb in barely enough time, a thin, white-faced little boy, maybe three, four years older than Sean, and cameras showed him close up beside the priest, his small hands clasping the priest’s.
Homeland Security put every airport in the nation on high alert. But how would they protect the large historic cathedrals? There were so many to choose from, if a terrorist was bent on destroying prime symbols of Western culture and civilization. Savich took calls from Director Comey; his own boss, ADA Jimmy Maitland; and every member of the CAU; Sherlock’s parents in San Francisco; a few FBI agents in New York, Nicholas Drummond among them; and the chief of security operations at JFK, Guy Alport. Savich had watched him being shotgunned with questions until he’d looked ready to bolt or shoot them all. Alport called to tell him Sherlock was scary good, that Savich was a lucky man to have that woman. He said he wanted to meet her husband, the guy she called a Big Dog. He laughed, then sobered immediately. “That priest at Saint Pat’s, I’d sure like to hire him, but God beat me to it.”
Finally, Savich set his cell to vibrate, put the landline on automatic message, and fetched Sean from next door.