As Pat Kendall stood with her arm extended, her pistol aimed at Harrison’s head, he pieced together the clues.
Pat.
Patricia.
Trish.
Trish the Dish.
Kendall was the stripper—Mixell’s soul mate.
He had missed the clues, including her comment at the NCTC about ending up back on the street if she didn’t keep her nose clean. He had assumed she was local law enforcement prior to joining the CIA, patrolling city streets, but back on the street meant an entirely different thing in Kendall’s case.
Her background also explained the DDO’s comment the day they met at Langley, when Kendall entered Christine’s office and Harrison stood to greet her. No need for chivalry, the DDO had said, especially in Pat’s presence. It also explained Kendall’s odd interaction with Max, the Baltimore police officer, when Kendall had commented about his wife not being happy if she found out about his exploits when he was younger. Max must have frequented the strip clubs while she was a dancer, engaging in who-knew-what in the private rooms.
Kendall had indeed begun a new life, as the strip club manager mentioned, but hadn’t broken completely clear of the old one. She and Mixell were still together.
It amounted to a critical lack of insight on his part, a failure that might cost him his life. He realized that during the confrontation between Khalila and Kendall the day he’d met them at Langley, both women’s accusations were correct. Khalila had been responsible for some of her partners’ deaths, and Kendall was corrupt, as Khalila suspected.
The realization must have been evident on his face, because Kendall said, “You finally figured it out. I have to hand it to you, Jake. You’re pretty dense.
“Oh, one more thing. About that FBI backup. It’s not coming. There was no one on the other end of the call. It helps if you press the phone icon before talking.”
“Well, well, well,” Mixell said as he approached Harrison, kicking away his pistol on the floor. “Long time, no see. This is an unexpected bonus. I can’t tell you how much I’m going to enjoy killing you. After, of course, you realize how miserably you failed in your mission.”
Mixell waited for a response, but Harrison declined to respond. He wasn’t going to feed into whatever sadistic plan his former best friend had in mind.
An irritated look flashed across Mixell’s face.
“What’s the plan? you ask. Surely, you’re curious. Or perhaps you’ve figured it all out. Let me show you. As they say, a picture is worth a thousand words.”
He climbed into the CONEX box and Harrison heard an engine rumble to life, then a green mobile missile launcher, as Harrison had suspected, crept down the metal ramps to the warehouse floor, and Mixell parked it near the garage door opening.
Harrison didn’t know what model the launcher was, but from the look of things, it was a Russian short-to-medium-range air defense system. It was armed with twelve canister-mounted missiles most likely capable of distinguishing chaff and infrared decoys from the real thing, and the launcher system could probably guide multiple missiles simultaneously to separate targets or to the same one.
With Air Force One taking off from Joint Base Andrews across the river, the president’s aircraft was well within range, and unlikely to decoy multiple missiles closing the distance in only a few seconds.
“I must admit, I developed a brilliant plan,” Mixell said as he stepped from the launcher.
He waited for a response again, which Harrison refused to provide.
“What?” He placed his hand to his ear. “You want to hear all about it? Of course, you do. Inquiring minds want to know, and you always were the curious type.”
He turned toward Kendall and smiled.
“Trish was kind enough to provide me with the president’s schedule, and I picked a day for the launch when the president would be at the White House. If Kazan’s launch and incoming missile went undetected—I call that plan A—the president and a good portion of Washington, D.C., would be incinerated. Easy-peasy.”
He paused, then asked, “You have figured out the missiles Kazan is carrying are armed with nuclear warheads, haven’t you?” His eyes went to Kendall, then back to Harrison. “That would be yes. Trish has been keeping me up to date.
“However, there was always the possibility the president would be forewarned—perhaps if Kazan’s launch was detected or the incoming missile was spotted by air defense radars. In that case, I couldn’t let the president slip away. That would be plan B.” He pointed at the missile launcher.
“Personally, I’ve been hoping for plan B. I’ve got a camera ready to record it.” He gestured toward one of the computer displays on the table. “Air Force One on fire, trailing red flames as it plummets toward earth.”
Mixell went on to explain that the video would be played endlessly around the world, demonstrating Ayman al-Zawahiri’s reach and the capability of his rejuvenated al-Qaeda organization. Al-Qaeda would absorb many of the jihadist organizations, and funds would flow into its coffers. With the additional networks and loyal followers, plus adequate funds, there was almost nothing Zawahiri couldn’t accomplish.
“You’ve betrayed your country,” Harrison said.
“It betrayed me!” Mixell’s face turned red, his neck veins bulging. “You betrayed me!”
His fury passed quickly, his skin color returning to normal.
“Haven’t you forgotten something?” Harrison asked. “The president is being evacuated, which means one of Kazan’s missiles is on its way here. Congratulations on plan A, but we’re all going to die.”
Mixell smiled. “I appreciate your concern for our safety, but don’t worry. The missiles fired by Kazan carry only a one-hundred-kiloton warhead. We’re six miles from the detonation point, which should be beyond the lethal radius. Just in case, however, I’ve got a boat tied up along the wharf outside. Air Force One should be in flames about thirty minutes before the missile arrives, and Trish and I will be long gone by then.”
One of the displays on the table began flashing again, and Harrison noted movement on the monitor. Marine One and its three escorts were approaching Joint Base Andrews, flying low, with their flight path occasionally blocked by nearby buildings, which explained why Mixell was waiting for the president to board Air Force One. Lumbering into the clear sky after takeoff, it would be an easy target.
Marine One touched down and the president and another dozen men and women debarked the helicopter, hurrying toward the boarding stairs pushed up against Air Force One.
“Pardon me for being rude,” Mixell said as he moved toward the missile launcher, “but I’ve got a president to kill.”