Crisp black-and-white images. Split screen. Another bank. Much smaller than the first. One view from high above the teller stations. One from a wide-angle camera mounted above the front door. Both cameras agree it’s 8:58 A.M. on March 5 and that the bank is empty. The voice returns to the overhead speakers. “This incident is considerably shorter than the other, so I’m going to let it run. We can go back over it later.” A hum of acquiescence rolled around the table. “What you’re seeing, ladies and gentlemen, is the Republic of Vietnam Bank. It’s located in a strip mall catering to recent immigrants on the corner of First Avenue and Foothill Boulevard in La Crescenta.” A young Asian man appears at the teller station closest to the door. White shirt, striped tie, no jacket. He’s carrying a cash drawer.
“The teller’s name is Don Keodalah. He’s thirty-one years old, has a wife and three kids. He lives four blocks away and walks to work regardless of the weather.” Another man appears on the screen. Dark suit and tie. Trim nearly to the point of emaciation. Thinning hair combed straight back.
“The bank manager’s name is Andrew Nguyen. Sixty-eight. Single. Lives with his younger sister in Glendale.” Nguyen says something to the teller, gets an answer, then hustles over to the front door, which he proceeds to unlock.
“We know what he said?” somebody asked.
“He asked the teller if he was ready.”
Nguyen walks to the far end of the counter, opens a little gate and lets himself in. He’s still got his back to the door when the customer comes in. Southeast Asian. Maybe forty, running to fat. Thick horn-rimmed glasses. Wearing dark slacks and a windbreaker. He looks around furtively, then walks over to the window, pushes a piece of paper through the slot. From the higher camera, you can see Keodalah’s scalp twitch as he reads the note. He reaches out with the toe of his left foot. A blinking icon appears in the upper left-hand corner of the screen.
“Silent alarm.”
“We got a make on the vic?”
“Not as of this morning.”
Nguyen appears at the teller’s shoulder. The younger man hands over the note. Looks like Nguyen reads it more than once and starts yelling, rapid fire, mouth moving like a machine gun. He crumples the note and throws it back through the slot.
The customer looks like he’s in agony. He unzips his windbreaker. Pulls the nylon wide apart, revealing the same type explosive device as Valparaiso wore the day before now locked around his neck.
Nguyen’s yelling at the customer, waving his arm like crazy. Looks like the customer’s yelling back, but the camera angles don’t show his mouth.
“We have a translation?” the same voice asked.
“The Bureau says he’s telling the vic to get the hell out.”
“Not much gets by the Bureau,” somebody comments. Laughter ripples around the room, then catches like a hook in their collective throat as the bomb goes off. Big puff of smoke, then Bam! Both cameras oscillate violently. Something gooey smears itself over the overhead lens in the second before the right-hand side of the screen goes black. The camera over the door keeps running. When the cloud of airborne debris clears, most of the counter is gone. So is most of the guy wearing the bomb. Amid the rubble a leg moves. Everyone around the table holds his breath and leans forward, hoping for a miracle, but as the point of view zooms in, it become apparent that the leg is just that…a leg…and that the movement is nothing more than the last spasm of a vaporized nervous system.
“Jesus,” somebody whispered.
“Three fatalities,” the voice-over intoned.
The tape rewinds to where Nguyen pushes the note back through the teller slot, then starts again…superslow motion this time. They watch in horror as the victim’s mouth trembles as he tries to speak. Whoever’s running the machine stops the action in the frame before the bomb detonates. The victim has his hands up at shoulder level…like he’s pushing against something…when the first puff of smoke appears from the black box on his chest. After that, even the miracle of videotape can’t slow things down much. In a heartbeat, the frame is filled with smoke, mercifully obscuring the horrific moment when the victims are torn asunder by the force of the blast. The tape runs back to the close-up of the twitching leg and the screen goes blank.
The disembodied voice from the ceiling started again. “A pair of county units were the first responders. Thinking it was maybe a gas leak, they cordoned off the whole shopping center, which has allowed us the past couple of days to carry out our investigation with little or no interference. Yesterday’s incident, however, makes it impossible to keep the situation under wraps any longer. The media isn’t buying the gas leak story. The locals are fielding a couple dozen Freedom of Information requests. They’ve got a press conference scheduled for eight this morning. Questions?”
“The lab make the explosive?”
“Military grade C-4. Could be part of the material stolen from Twenty-Nine Palms.”
“We know how the vic got to the bank?” the guy behind Corso asked.
“The locals came up with an unclaimed Nissan Pathfinder in the parking lot. It’s registered to a Mrs….” He struggled with the Vietnamese name. “As of this a.m. they’ve been unable to contact Mrs….”
He butchered the name again. “If Mr. Morales of the FBI is still with us, perhaps he could share the Bureau’s actions to this point.”
A light-skinned Hispanic rose from the back row. He wore a well-cut tropical suit and a two-hundred-dollar haircut. He was handsome to a fault. He surveyed the crowd as if he owned it.
“At this point, the Bureau is concentrating on known terrorist groups. This morning, we questioned seventy or so suspects.” He anticipated the obvious question. “We’re not limiting ourselves to foreign terrorists. We’re including everyone from Nazi skinheads to right-wing antigovernment types. We believe this line of inquiry is the one most likely to bear fruit.”
“Anybody taking credit for it?” somebody asked from the audience.
Morales cleared his throat. “The San Bernardino office received a call last night. The caller claimed the bombings were retribution for the capture of Eric Rudolph. They say the bombings will continue until he is released.”
Another buzz ran through the crowd. The questions and answers continued for the better part of twenty minutes before the lights were flipped back on. The buzz reached a crescendo, then, in ones and twos and fours, the conference room emptied, until only Corso, Andriatta and a knot of people at the back of the room remained.
Wasn’t until the room cleared that Corso caught his first glimpse of the guy in the wheelchair. One eye, one hand and one foot missing. Right side of his face looked like a pepperoni pizza. Corso watched as the guy used his remaining hand to operate the joystick on the chair. The soft whir of electronics floated above the muffled conversations coming from the back of the room.
The horror in the wheelchair had made a quick right turn and huddled up with Special Agent Morales and the rest of the FBI contingent. The other suit took his time getting to the front of the room. He leaned his backside against the table and folded his arms.
“Which brings us to the two of you,” he said.