24

WASHINGTON, D.C.

The dark-haired Turkish woman checked her watch.

It was 7:36 in the evening.

She was dressed in ripped blue jeans, a GW sweatshirt, a brown leather jacket, and brown boots —with a canvas courier bag slung over her back. She was only twenty-six years old. But having cut her teeth helping smuggle ISIS operatives through her homeland into northern Syria, she’d been recruited by Kairos early —practically the day of its inception —and she had proven herself reliable.

Positioned at a gas station on the corner of Rock Creek Parkway and Virginia Avenue, next door to the Watergate, she had an unobstructed view of the building’s front door. She bent over and pretended to check the air pressure in the front tire of her BMW motorcycle, then watched as Ambassador Tyler Reed emerged from the building and got into the backseat of a black Chevy Suburban, two DSS agents at his side, a third behind the wheel.

She immediately speed-dialed her commander. “Honey, I’m leaving for the office.”

“Great; see you soon, sweetheart,” the commander of the first cell replied in heavily accented English. “Stay safe.”

As the woman donned her helmet and adjusted the visor, her commander speed-dialed the head of the second cell.

“Morning, Bob —I just got off the phone with Julie. Apparently Tony’s flight just took off and should be on time.”

“I’ll be sure to pick him up when he arrives,” came the reply.

Outside the Watergate, the Turkish woman revved her engine but did not pull out. Instead, a blue Dodge Grand Caravan idling across the street pulled away from the curb, did a quick U-turn, and began heading southeast on Virginia Avenue. The driver could see the Suburban. It was only three cars ahead. Yet when the Chevy made a left on Twenty-Third Street, the Caravan did not turn with it. Instead, it continued straight until it reached Twenty-Second Street, at which point it made a left.

The Suburban with Reed in it headed north, past the Foggy Bottom Metro station on the left and the campus of George Washington University on the right. As it approached Washington Circle, it bore right, flowing with traffic, took the third exit off the circle onto New Hampshire Avenue, and then almost immediately veered right onto L Street, heading east.

The moment the Suburban crossed Twenty-First Street, a white, four-door Ford Festiva pulled out of a driveway. It was also heading east on L Street, four cars back. By the time they crossed Connecticut Avenue, two of the three Kairos vehicles had turned off onto other streets. The Festiva was only one car behind the Suburban. In its front passenger seat sat the commander of the second cell. He could not see through the Chevy’s tinted windows, but he speed-dialed the commander of the first cell and asked, “Just to be clear, is the shop located on Vermont Avenue or Twelfth Street?”

There was no shop. Rather, this was to inform the commander of the first cell that they were about to pass Vermont Avenue. It also signaled that the Festiva should break away from the Suburban, taking a left on Twelfth.

The Turkish woman, meanwhile, raced eastward down H Street. She was running directly parallel with L Street and receiving updates by phone through her Bluetooth earpiece every few moments. Zigzagging through traffic, she was making far better time. By the time she reached Chinatown, she was three full blocks ahead of the Suburban, stopped at a light.

Taking a hard left on Seventh Street, heading north, the Turkish woman accelerated until she reached L Street. Making a slow right on a red light onto L, she pulled over and checked her mirrors. At that instant, another call came in. The commander of the first cell told her she was in sight, all the cameras were rolling, and that “the FedEx truck” was just two blocks back. Glancing at her left mirror again, she saw the flashing red-and-blue lights of the Suburban. The ambassador’s vehicle was coming up fast.

The moment Reed passed, the BMW accelerated again, pulling back into traffic, but three cars back. One block later, the BMW was two cars back. Just before Fourth Street, the Turkish woman made her move. She gunned the engine and quickly caught up to the Suburban. At the same time, the driver of the Festiva, heading south on Fourth, slammed on his brakes and screeched to a halt in the middle of the intersection, forcing the driver of the Suburban to hit his brakes as well.

Now the Turkish woman braked hard too, stopping on the rear left side of the Suburban as the DSS driver laid on his horn. In a well-rehearsed motion, the woman’s right hand grabbed for her courier bag. She flipped open the cover, reached inside, and pulled out a thirteen-pound limpet mine. Typically used by Navy divers to sabotage ships, the device consisted of a cylindrical shell housing devastating explosives. It also contained powerful magnets, allowing the woman to easily attach the mine to the side of the vehicle, right over the gas tank. An instant later, she had set the fuse, revved her engine again, and taken a hard left on Fourth Street. The driver of the Festiva followed suit, hitting the gas and racing away from the scene.

Three seconds later, an enormous explosion shook the capital.