For the next six minutes, as she monitored radio chatter, Bree roamed back and forth, looking east and west, seeing cruiser after cruiser turn sideways to block access to Constitution and Independence Avenues where they ran parallel to the Mall.
At 7:49, twenty-one minutes after the bomber’s phone call, mounted police appeared and cantered their horses the length of the Mall, shouting to everyone to leave the quickest way possible. Other patrol cars cruised Independence, Constitution, and Madison, using their bullhorns to spur the evacuation.
Despite Bree’s hope for calm, the police horses and bullhorns were clearly seeding panic. Joggers turned and sprinted north and south off the Mall. Fathers grabbed their kids and ran. Moms pushed baby carriages helter-skelter. Tourists poured like ants out of the Lincoln Memorial and left the Vietnam and World War II Memorials in droves.
Bree kept the binoculars pressed tight to her eyes, looking for someone lingering, someone wanting a last look at the spot where the bomb was stashed, or positioned to remotely detonate the device.
But she saw no one that set off alarm bells.
The son of a bitch is gone, she thought. Long gone.
Chapter 3
The bomb dogs did not appear until 7:59 a.m., delayed by traffic caused by closing the Mall during rush hour. They had twenty-seven minutes to find the device, and Bree was fighting off a panic that threatened to freeze her.
She was in charge. What if something went wrong? What if the device went off?
As quick as the question popped into her mind, Bree squashed it. Breathe. The officers and agents converging on the Mall were outstanding, the best. You’re leading superior people, she thought. Trust them to do their jobs, and advise you well, and you’ll be confident in your decisions.
The Mall was almost empty when handlers released twelve German shepherds at intervals along Constitution Avenue from the west lawn of the Capitol to the Lincoln Memorial. Bree watched the dogs roam into the wind in big loops, noses up, sniffing out scents as their handlers tried to keep pace.
A minute passed and then two. On the radio, bomb squad leaders from the four law enforcement agencies announced their teams’ arrivals at positions along Independence Avenue, now empty save for cruisers with blue lights flashing.
At 8:02, Bree was looking west toward the Capitol when one of the FBI’s shepherds slowed, circled, and then sat by a trash bin along a pathway west of 7th Street, almost directly south of the National Sculpture Museum.
“K-9 Pablo says he’s got a package,” the dog’s handler said over the radio.
Bree closed her eyes. They’d found it with what, twenty-four minutes to spare?
“Back K-9 Pablo off,” Bree said. “Bomb squads move to his location.”
The FBI and Capitol Hill Police bomb squads were closest. Tactical vans raced east along Monroe from 3rd, and west from 15th, stopping a block away from the trash bin at 8:04. They had twenty-two minutes to neutralize the threat.
Agents and officers in full bomb gear piled out of the vans. Two FBI bomb experts walked within fifty yards of the trash can before releasing an Andros Mark V-A1, a four-wheel-drive robot that rolled right up next to it bearing electronic sensors and cameras.
“We have a timed device,” one of the agents said, within seconds. “Repeat, we have a timed device.”
“Evidence of cellular linkage?” another radioed back.
“Negative.”
Special Agent Peggy Denton, the FBI bomb squad commander, called for heavy mats and blankets made of fire-retardant Nomex materials stuffed with sliced-up tire rubber. Four agents and five Capitol Hill police officers carried the mats and blankets toward the trash can.
Bree’s breath caught in her throat when they got within ten feet. If the bomber had a remote trigger on the IED, which was not cell phone driven…
But without hesitation, the bomb team showed exceptional courage. They went to the trash can and laid two bomb mats over it, and then a bomb blanket that draped over the entire can down to the sidewalk. The agents and officers moved back quickly, yanking off their hooded visors, and Bree sighed with relief.
It was 8:11. Fifteen minutes to spare.
“Job well done,” Bree said into the radio, and suddenly felt weak and tired.
She sat down against the wall and closed her eyes, her fingers playing with her wedding ring, an old habit, until she thought to call her husband, Alex. She not only wanted, but needed to hear his voice.
After four rings, she realized that he was probably with a patient.
“Alex Cross,” his voice mail said. “Leave your message at the beep.”
“Hey, baby,” she said, fighting down a surge of emotion. “I’m okay. I was running on the Mall and…”