“Bingo,” she says. “In an urban environment, there are lots of electronic signals flying through the air on multiple frequencies. It’d be a hell of a thing if some guy was texting his girlfriend and it just happened to match the command detonation frequency. A bigboomwhen you didn’t want it to explode.”
“I think our bomber is too smart to use command denotation in an urban area,” I say.
“I found one more thing.” Rizzo points to a microscope that hasa small piece of jagged green plastic on the specimen stage. Mahoney starts to lean in, but Rizzo tugs him back.
“Save your eyes,” she tells him. “What we have here is the fragment of a wrapper for a brick of C-4 explosive.”
Interesting. And terrifying. C-4 is a military-grade plastic explosive—very, very hard for a civilian to secure. Available on only the blackest of black markets.
Mahoney gives out a low whistle. “That steps things up, doesn’t it? A fertilizer-and-fuel-oil bomb is probably within reach of any competent civilian with an engineering brain. But now we’re adding C-4 into the equation. Maybe a backup detonation device?”
“Maybe,” says Rizzo, sitting down. “Or maybe a message.”
Now I’m lost. “A message? What kind of message? Like a threat?”
“Maybe. C-4 is a great plastic explosive,” says Rizzo. “Malleable, easy to use, and safe to handle. You can drop it on the floor or take a baseball bat to it and nothing will happen.” She picks up a pair of tweezers and pulls out the wrapper scrap. “But for your terrorist bomber, there’s a big disadvantage. Powerful explosives like C-4 and Semtex contain taggants—microscopic markers that identify the manufacturer and the lot number, allowing law enforcement to trace it to the source.”
“Sounds sloppy,” says Mahoney. “And risky. Why take that chance?”
“What if it’s deliberate?” asks Rizzo. “Maybe the bomber wants us to know who he is and where he’s from without making TikTok videos or sending out an email blast.”
I’m tired and impatient. I feel like Rizzo is teasing us now. I lean down and look her right in the eye. “Anna, can you source this taggant?”
She stares right back. “Usually, yes. But not this sample. It’s not in my database.”
“Which means what?”
“Which means it came from a classified stash. Probably government. We need someone with clout to break through the bureaucracy and red tape and get to the top security records.”
“Look,” says Mahoney, “I spoke to the president two hours ago. He wants twice-daily updates. Whatever data you need, I’ll get it. Just tell me where to go.”
Rizzo gets up from her stool. “Start with Langley, Virginia.”
CHAPTER 24
Cross
YELLS AND SCREAMS ECHO inside the Grotto Tavern in the aftermath of the broken window. Alex Cross jumps up so fast, his chair falls over. He takes a quick look to make sure nobody at their table was hurt, then pushes through the mass of dazed bar patrons, some standing, others crouching in puddles of beer beneath tables.
He shoves his way through the wooden doors, steps out onto the sidewalk, and looks left and right.
He can’t believe what he sees.
Marching away on the other side of the street are a dozen men, identically dressed in short-sleeved black T-shirts, black pants, black sneakers—and black domino masks on their faces. Their white faces. They’re trying to hide their identities, but not their race. That’s the one thing they want people to know, Alex realizes.
Each marcher carries a small knapsack and holds a single flickering tiki torch. In sync with their steps, they’re loudly chanting,“Whose streets? Our streets! Whose streets? Our streets!” Over and over. Gruff and aggressive.
A couple of young men burst out of the bar and rush the column, but they’re quickly pushed back. The marchers are muscular, determined, and methodical. The beer-buzzed bar patrons have no chance against them. They get thrown aside like rag dolls. And the marchers keep marching.
They’re about fifty feet away from the tavern now, approaching a park entrance. In rapid succession, the men thrust their torches into a storm drain, strip off their face masks, throw them into large trash barrels, and pull baseball caps and bright-colored T-shirts out of their knapsacks. The group members put them on and then scatter like droplets from a fallen bead of mercury. Some go into the park, others trot across the street, and a few keep on walking, heads down, merging with college students out for a stroll.
Alex watches them go, breathing hard.
What just happened?
Whatever it was, it was quick and well rehearsed.
Bree comes up next to him. “I called 911.”
