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“Are they non-terrorist?”
“They claim to be helping us counter the terrorists. Some of them might be. Some might not. I believe I’m probably being used to spread disinformation and sow confusion about American plans and motives.”
“Which is why these people haven’t been arrested.”
“Oh, when the time comes, I doubt they’ll be arrested.”
Coleman nodded. “You bring them messages. Who gives them to you and tells you where to go?”
“I’m not at liberty to tell you that.”
“So I guess I won’t be picking up your mail.”
“I can tell you this much. My assignments emanate from the White House.”
Coleman whistled softly. “So he negotiates with terrorists after all.”
“Don’t suppose for a second that the President has any idea what I do,” said Reuben. “Or that I exist. But I have verified for myself that my chief contact has complete access to the President and from that I conclude that I am an instrument of his national policy.”
“And yet you hide from lip-readers with telephoto lenses.”
Reuben refolded the map. “Let us look at Fort McNair.”
Together they walked to the railing near the water and looked across the channel at the fort. “There it is, Captain Coleman. The home of the National Defense University and half the Old Guard. You know, the guys who dress up in Colonial Army uniforms to wow tourists and foreign dignitaries.”
“Also where the Joint Force Headquarters of the National Capital Region is.”
“Three weeks ago, I turned in—as part of my official duties—a report on likely targets in the Washington area and how I, if I were a terrorist, would attempt to attack them.”
“I’m betting Fort McNair was not one of those targets.”
“Al Qaeda doesn’t give a rat’s ass about real estate. They did that in zip-one, but all the terrorists who attacked commuter transportation in Europe and plotted to hit buildings and subways in the States are really just wannabes. Al Qaeda trains them and encourages them, but these are not Al Qaeda’s own operations.”
“You think they’re through with symbolism.”
“The way they see it, they can’t afford to make any more empty gestures. And with all respect to those who died on 9/11, that was an empty gesture. It made us angry; it goaded us to a brief moment of national unity; it led directly to the fall of two Muslim governments and the taming of many more.”
“They want to hurt us this time, not just slap us.”
“They have only one target that makes any sense at all,” said Reuben.
“The President,” said Coleman.
They stood in silence, looking out over the water.
“So let me put this together,” said Coleman after a while. “You came up with practical, workable plans to kill the President of the United States and turned them over to your superiors at the Pentagon. But you also fear that you’re being observed even when you come out to the tip of Hain’s Point, a city park where a bunch of schoolchildren climb all over the statue of a giant rising out of the earth.”
Reuben waited for his conclusion.
“This spot is part of the plan?” said Coleman.
“Part of the best plan. The simplest. The surest. Oh, lots can still go wrong. But each part of it is well within the reach of any terrorist group smart enough to think of it—and disciplined enough to keep its mouth shut during the training phase.”
“Not the clowns we’ve been catching.”
“The clowns keep us busy and give us a sense of complacency. ‘Our counterterrorism is working,’ we tell ourselves. But we haven’t come up against the big boys since 9/11. Since we routed them out of their hidey-holes in Afghanistan.”
“Do you sail?” asked Coleman.
