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Chancy Maple sprawled on the living room sofa, body spent but mind replaying not just the day but events of the past several weeks. For years they had lived on what some might call the edge of terrorism, what others would simply label crime. Suddenly they commanded the nation’s attention. They had successfully carried out a major act of domestic terrorism.
While watching television over lunch they had been nothing short of amazed by the public impact of their actions. To be so high profile and, at the same time, determined to remain anonymous was conflicting. What they saw as a straightforward attack against the hated government of the United States immediately took on complexities they had never considered. Sure, they knew generally what the press conference was about, but their target was not Russia. Within a few short hours the political ramifications had mushroomed, becoming equal to, perhaps greater than, the attack itself. Lacking answers, the questions were boundless. Was the target the U.S. or Russia? Was the motive terrorism or opposition to the treaty extension? How did the attack change the treaty, if at all? Will there be an impact on U.S. domestic policies, particularly immigration? What will be the impact on U.S.-Russia relations, long- and short-term? What are the broader international ramifications? And most cynically, did the U.S. or Russia mastermind the attack? The questions went on and on, as they can only in Washington.
Every politician and talking head had to weigh in, their comments and questions limited only by their imaginations. They were led, of course, by President Jonathan T. Tower. “Intelligence,” he declared without specifics, has confirmed a link to a hostile Muslim country, which he did not name. With great solemnity he vowed to meet his foremost responsibility, protecting the United States and its citizens.
“You know,” Stickman had said, “we have caused a lot more confusion and anxiety than I expected. That’s a good thing.” With that, he went to take a nap.
Maple had never seriously thought about how to handle the fallout of his actions, beyond knowing he must be ready to run. So just accept Stickman’s view, that sowing confusion and anxiety is value added, he told himself. Nothing has really changed for me personally, not really. “All this political stuff is beyond my pay grade,” he said aloud as he returned to marveling at what they had pulled off. They had picked a vulnerable high value target, gathered munitions, put together an effective attack and successful escape, and made plans for what might come.
He recalled their first decision: The nation’s capital. There was no better target, not even New York. But where in the capital? They looked seriously at the White House and Capitol and had been discouraged by the heavy security. They thought about targeting a large crowd, like President Tower’s inauguration. Again, security was formidable. Unless they could plant a bomb and wander off unnoticed, trying to flee hordes of people with an orgasmic commitment to his election invited being mob-stomped.
As they noodled options, it was Stickman who picked up on news stories about growing tension between the U.S. and Russia because of conflicts in the Ukraine and Syria. That made the Russian Embassy an appealing target. Not only would the U.S. be condemned, hostilities between the two nations could spin out of control.
The embassy compound on Wisconsin Avenue, N.W., with its high walls and heavy metal gates, was a fortress. That was obvious from what could be seen. What couldn’t be was even more impressive, no doubt. But just up the street, sitting on high ground, was Washington National Cathedral. Launching an attack from there had potential.
After reviewing weapons, they settled on using a rocket-propelled grenade launcher. Internet maps put the distance from cathedral to embassy at about 700 yards, the edge of the RPG’s effective range. But the cathedral’s Gloria in Excelsis tower soars three hundred feet above the street, an elevation gain that easily put the embassy within reach. Taking the time to climb the stairs to fire from the tower was too risky and there was no public access to an elevator used by cathedral bell ringers. Access could be forced, of course. But using one of the public elevators in the west towers that serve the observation gallery was a better option. While giving up some height, that level still stretched the shoulder-fired RPG’s range enough to target the embassy. Or so Maple and Stickman calculated.
At the al-Qaeda training camp, a sheik who had moved back to Afghanistan from New York had taken a liking to Stickman. Stickman confided their intention to wage violent jihad against the U.S., and their need for munitions. The sheik arranged for a source, identified only as “MR,” to expect a call after Stickman returned to the states.
Contact was made. MR became Stickman and Maple’s second exception to avoiding contact with other terrorists in the U.S. Over the next several years, Maple recalled Stickman picking up three shipments of Gen4 Glock pistols of various calibers, both Standard and Slimline, as well as semi-automatic AK-47 assault rifles. MR’s prices were high, particularly for weapons discarded after being used only once in a crime. Stickman never met MR, following his firm order to come alone to the Hoboken, New Jersey area. There, Stickman was remotely directed through logistical gyrations intended to ensure security before finally meeting with underlings. It was a tedious way to do business. But it was better than buying online where sales information could be captured or from retail stores with their incriminating surveillance cameras.
Tedious or not, having a supplier to deliver a launcher and ample grenades was crucial. The Russian-made RPG-7, a portable model that had been around since the 1960s, was all they expected. But MR offered them the much newer RPG-7D3. It was equivalent to an earlier paratrooper model, which breaks into two parts that fit in a relatively inconspicuous designer backpack. Besides having sophisticated sighting features, the 7D3 could launch high explosive anti-tank warheads, making it far superior in killing power to the original RPG-7. All for a price, of course, which they could barely cover. MR supposedly was sympathetic to militant jihad against the U.S., but Maple was convinced that greed was his strongest motive.
Maple woke up with a start. Must have slept a couple of hours, he mused, noting the shadows in his living room had shifted. His nervous energy immediately returned and with it his recollection of the several visits he and Stickman made to the cathedral. They visited separately every few days, sometimes in disguise. They tried to note staff schedules and when tourists liked to visit, but found no predictable patterns. They talked of burglarizing the century-old building. But that could result in telltale signs of entry, leaving themselves vulnerable if still inside. Finally, they had to admit their reconnaissance was of little value, except for learning that cathedral security was light.
Attacking from the cathedral would require reacting swiftly to a promising opportunity at the embassy, which they could not control. That would put Maple, in particular, at more risk than ever before, prompting him to lightly weigh the proverbial promise of cavorting with scores of virgins. Oh, to be a true believer, he joked.
They could help themselves most by knowing about embassy events. To that end, American openness obliged. Maple recalled being impressed at how quickly Stickman hacked email accounts of reporters on international beats to find embassy press releases. When the press conference on the New START Treaty was announced, a reporter’s hacked computer informed them the press conference would be at nine-thirty the next morning. If on time, Maple would be out of the cathedral before weekday tourists started arriving at ten. Instead of a general attack on the embassy to stir hostility between Russia and the U.S., they would target a real event, with real people.
Maple found himself sweating as he relived arriving at the lower level entrance to the administrative offices on the Episcopal cathedral’s east side. “That stupid fool,” he shouted to the room, then took a deep breath, willing his mind back to the morning.
He had parked his car a couple blocks north. He wore work slacks, a baseball cap, sunglasses and a padded denim jacket against the February cold. Besides the designer backpack, with a small canvas tarpaulin tied carefully to erase contours of its deadly contents, he carried a short aluminum ladder. He propped the ladder against a window sill near the door, as if being there to repair the aging casement window. Nervous, he waited for a cathedral employee to come down the sidewalk.
A small woman in her forties, walking with a slight limp, obliged. Maple glanced across the brownish lawn and only saw two men walking, half a block away. He waited until the woman was within two steps of the door before swinging off the ladder and to her side. “Don’t scream,” he said softly. “I have a gun and a knife.”
Alarm filled her face but she was silent. Their eyes locked and Maple continued, making an effort to be very clear, “You are going to unlock the door and be my escort. You will act normal. Answer people if you need to. You can say you are showing me to my job. My gun has a silencer. One mistake and I will kill you and everyone else. Let’s go.”
She unlocked the door and they walked into a room divided into cubicles. Only four people were at their desks, engrossed in work. No one spoke.
“What’s your name?” Maple asked as they entered a passageway leading to the lower level of the cathedral.
“Nadia.”
“You’re doing fine, Nadia. Just remember what I said.”
They came to the long narrow gift shop where many tours end. Turning right, they started past racks and tables loaded with Washington and cathedral memorabilia.
A handful of employees were stocking mementoes and one stepped into the aisle. “Morning, Nadia. Slumming?”
“No, Doreen. The maintenance guys are out on the grounds somewhere. I drew the short straw for escorting this gentleman upstairs.”
“No short straw, honey.” Doreen gave Maple an appreciative look. “If you get lost, I can help.”
Nadia managed an embarrassed smile. “We’re fine, thanks.”
Sliding past Doreen’s ample form, Maple wondered fleetingly if cougars prowled the sixth largest Gothic cathedral in the world.
A flight of steps took them up to the nave, with its hundred-foot ceiling. Outside light gave brilliance to the magnificent Creation Rose and other stained glass windows, and gently massaged the Indiana limestone from the nearby main entrance to the High Altar at the far end. Though the sweep of the cathedral is a work of extraordinary architecture and art, Maple never gave it a glance.
A sign announcing “Out of Service” hung on an elevator door. Maple nodded toward the other elevator, the one he preferred anyway, serving the southwest tower and the Pilgrim Observation Gallery. Nadia pressed the call button and they waited. Finally, the elevator arrived.
“I want to stop at Level 6, Nadia.”
“That’s not open to the public. It’s a maintenance floor.”
“I know, but you’re not the public.”
“I don’t have a key to stop on that floor. I work in our finance office.”
Maple believed her, but pressed the button for six anyway. Nothing. “We’ll ride to seven. You’ll show me how to get back to six.”
The elevator was old and slow. Maple flexed his shoulders against the pull of the backpack, though its destructive contents were quite light, the launcher weighing just fifteen pounds. Sweat ran down his backbone and he unzipped his jacket most of the way. He wondered what he would do if he couldn’t get to the sixth floor. He had assumed too much about employee access throughout the building. He did know he would use the stairs going down. Cut the electricity and the elevator was a trap.
They arrived on seven. Without being told, Nadia led the way to a nearby door for employees only. She turned the handle. It was unlocked. Maple exhaled, followed her down one flight of stairs. “I want to go outside.”
They walked into brilliant sunshine and arguably the city’s most spectacular view. Knowing he had about fifteen minutes until the press conference, Maple stopped Nadia with a light touch to her shoulder. They were facing the Capitol on the far left. Pivoting right, down the Mall, were the Smithsonian castles, the low-lying White House, Washington, Jefferson and other monuments leading to Lincoln and then the high rises of Rosslyn across the Potomac River. Tiny rows of white headstones attested to the hallowed grounds of Arlington National Cemetery, with the Pentagon in the background.
The procession of landmarks punctuated the architecturally challenged buildings dominating Washington’s downtown and, closer in, were winter browns and grays of trees mostly bare. The moment passed and Maple’s sightline moved impatiently to Wisconsin Avenue.
He motioned for Nadia to walk toward the Gloria in Excelsis tower. On their right was a low parapet supported by identical though irregularly shaped vertical columns. They formed convenient openings for steadying the portable rocket launcher.
Maple glanced again to the southwest, toward his target, nudging Nadia forward to roughly the midpoint of the walkway. “Stop, and sit down against the wall.” Seeing no masons or other workers in the cathedral’s upper reaches, he pulled flexible cuffs from a jacket pocket and bound her wrists and ankles. He was mildly surprised that she offered no resistance, even when he gagged her. A leather dog leash looped around a column and snapped into her wrist cuffs kept her from going far.
Maple stepped away from her and, with binoculars, tracked the west side of Wisconsin, full of rush hour traffic, down the row of imposing apartment houses in their various shades of brown. He slowly swept past one with a vertical design, then more of the monotonous buildings until he came to an open space. That gap, he knew from reconnaissance outings, was the entrance to the Russian Embassy. The entrance was roughly rectangular but irregular, with gates set well back from the street. There was adequate space for a press conference. South of the entrance, which served pedestrians as well as motor vehicles, a tall, commanding brick wall paralleled Wisconsin to the end of the compound.
Maple could see activity at the entrance, but not make out distinct forms. A steady flashing light identified a parked emergency vehicle. In a sense he would be shooting blind, aiming just above traffic and just to the left of the last apartment building before the entrance. Aim too low and he would ruin a hapless motorist’s commute, too high and the RPG would likely chew up the lawn or driveway of the compound, and little else. Aim too far right or left and the RPG would be largely absorbed by the corner of the apartment building or the wall. Scoring a direct hit suddenly posed a serious challenge. He had fired a rocket launcher only a handful of times. But just coming close would mean casualties and would panic the city, at the least, he told himself. This is going to happen.
Maple unslung the backpack, imagining he could see Nadia’s eyes widen and fixate on him as he assembled the rocket launcher and its first deadly payload. He had just put in earplugs when his phone rang. It was Stickman.
“I’m across the street at the bus stop. How are you doing?”
“I just have to ...Have a little prep left but I’m fine.”
“Okay. It looks like most everyone has shown up for work today.”
“Good. You’re breaking up a little.”
“I’m going to move down Edmunds to look over some parked cars. ... Another van has arrived. There’s a car pulling up inside. The boss men may be here. I think it’s about time to go to work ...Are you hearing me now?
“I think we’re good.”
The armed launcher fit nicely between the short columns. Resting it against one to his left, Maple adjusted the back-up iron sight. He checked the optical sight, and picked up more motion than he had with the binoculars. Shapes, certainly of people, were more clearly defined. Through a break in the crowd he made out an upright form, probably the podium. The shot would be tight, but he was feeling more confident.
Maple withdrew the launcher and propped it against the corner of a column, then positioned three more RPGs for loading. He put his phone on speaker and laid it on the concrete base of the parapet. When Stickman had asked how he was doing, he almost said he only needed to check the rocket launcher’s sights. That would not have gone over well. They had agreed on the need to use bland language, not knowing how closely security teams assigned to the press conference, U.S. or Russian, were monitoring conversations.
He thought to glance at the southwest tower and was relieved to not see any activity. Nadia sat motionless, her knees pulled up, watching him with frightened eyes.
“All right, I’m where I want to be,” Stickman’s voice crackled through the speaker. “How are you?”
“Fine, thanks.”
A siren abruptly wailed near the cathedral in the direction of Wisconsin. Maple ignored it, moving the launcher back into position. In the scope, he framed the entrance opening between the apartment building and the wall. There was less motion now. The press conference must be about to start, or was maybe underway. With the siren belching erratically to his right, he strained to hear Stickman. “Go” came through and Maple squeezed off a rocket-propelled fragmentation round. The siren went silent as if giving center stage to the RPG. The grenade hit on the right edge of the entrance, just missing the apartment house. Debris and dust flew. Maple’s instant analysis was, if not on target at least close enough to do damage.
“Damn, I said ‘Not a go,’” Stickman’s voice crackled. Maple swore under his breath. He had reloaded when Stickman ordered him to adjust a notch up, notch left. He quickly did, and fired again. The next order to fire came much faster than Maple could reload, and he questioned trying to hit the same spot. But he knew the vagaries of an RPG in flight probably meant hitting close by, just what they wanted for maximum impact, and he unleashed the third grenade. Debris and dust again filled his scope. “You’re good. Get out of there.” Maple withdrew the launcher, expecting to hear screams from the carnage he had just inflicted, but nothing but the murmur of traffic came from the direction of the embassy. He began repacking.
Nadia was on her side, arms up, trying to cover her ears. Though the launcher didn’t seem all that loud, he wished he had given her ear plugs. He studied her momentarily. You’ll be found soon enough, he thought as he stepped over her, stooping to take the work credential dangling from her neck.
Reentering the southwest tower he found himself alone and was tempted to press the button for the closest elevator. Instead, he took the stairs two at a time, the backpack bouncing, to the main floor. He gathered himself, then casually opened the door, and nearly walked into a security officer. The man was beefy, with a friendly open face, and just nodded before seeing Nadia’s credential. Without looking down Maple knew it was showing her face.
“Hey buddy, hold on a minute. That sure doesn’t look like you.” A silly grin appeared, as if to say, I’m so smart, and he stepped squarely in Maple’s path. Maple tried to appear calm.
“Well, you see, I’ve been working upstairs and found this. I’m on my way to turn it in. Can you direct me?”
“You’ll have to come to the security office so I can confirm this was lost. Take it off, please.”
As the officer’s eyes followed Maple’s left hand, slipping the credential over his head, his right hand curled around the silenced Glock in his jacket pocket. He jammed the gun into the guard’s ribcage.
“Just be quiet.” Reaching back, Maple found the handle of the staircase door. “Stay close to me and go through the door.”
The officer obeyed. Maple didn’t know what to do next. He should have brought more cuffs, he thought. I don’t want to shoot him. The door closed behind them. “Now, just take a step back.” Maple swung the gun in an arc ending on the officer’s forehead. A second blow sent him to one knee, his eyes glassy. Believing the officer was losing consciousness, Maple turned toward the door.
“Goddamn you,” the bleeding man growled as he lunged. Maple turned in time to absorb the charge. The Glock fired. Maple shoved back and this time fired purposely at point-blank range. The big man crumbled onto his back, lower legs pinned grotesquely beneath him, feet protruding. Maple stood over him, watching with difficulty as the man moaned softly, eyes blinking. Blood was turning his trousers crimson below the waist. Maple fixated on the much smaller, slowly growing chest wound. He knew the slaughter he had just inflicted at the embassy was worse, many times over, but he had seen nothing but dust. This was personal, the first time he had killed up close. On the few road trips ending in murder, it had been at Stickman’s hand. Maple knew if he moved suddenly, he would retch. He fought to hold himself together as he watched the eyes blinking slower, and then they were vacant.
He stepped back, wanting to run, forcing himself to take stock. He looked at himself. He saw only a few drops of blood on a pants leg. Were they from the pistol whipping or the first shot? The stupidity of the question snapped him back to the moment. Nadia’s credentials were on the floor. He reached down unsteadily, picked them up thinking, fingerprints. He pulled out a handkerchief, taking rapid swipes at the elevator buttons and door handles as he went out, wondering if he had missed any. Leaving by the visitor’s exit, he crossed the grounds toward Woodley Road, walking with purpose but not haste, his panic not showing, a workman needing a tool from his car.
“You stupid fool,” he belatedly told the dead security guard.
“Whoa, bro. What’s the problem?”
Maple’s eyes opened at the sound of Stickman’s voice. He heaved himself to the edge of the sofa, elbows on knees. “Sorry. Guess I was sort of dreaming, going over what happened at the cathedral.”
“What happened is that we struck a hell of a blow against the US of A.”
“I know. But I told you, I killed that security guard. I called him a ‘stupid fool’ on the way to the car. I’m pretty sure he was dead, but I hope he somehow heard me. He didn’t have to die.”
Maple sat in silence for a minute. “Oh, I forgot until I was thinking about things. What was that about a no go?”
“Another car showed up inside the gates and this guy got out in a hurry. He looked like he was somebody. I was going to wait to see if he went to the podium.”
“Sorry.”
“Doesn’t matter. But all this angst about the guard ...What about the woman? You haven’t said, but I assume you followed our plan.”
“No, I didn’t,” Maple admitted. “I decided she was so frightened that it wasn’t necessary. Several other people had seen me, too. I couldn’t go back and kill them all.”
“The others saw you briefly, even the cougar you told me about,” Stickman said with irritation. “This Nadia had time to really look at you. She had time to count the little moles on your right cheek.”
“Sorry. I just didn’t think it was necessary.”
Just didn’t think is more like it, just lost your nerve, Stickman stewed to himself. He sat down, studying his partner. He had never seen Maple like this, never seen his nerves exposed, fraying at the ends.
“Forget about the woman. You’re probably right. The guard you shot was a stupid fool. Let it go. He did it to himself. A casualty of war. I’m just hoping today sets off more attacks. Fort Hood, Newtown, San Bernardino, Boston, Charleston, even Orlando,” Stickman ticked off the partial list of terrorist attacks in recent years in the U.S.
He got up, began pacing. “None of those attacks managed to focus attention of people like us on the government, not big time. The outrage against the shooters went in the wrong direction, man, calls for gun control, or it became a race thing, or it became the acts of nut cases. Even when Muslims were involved, nothing. Nothing has had legs since 9/11. And that caused fear, Americans being afraid, but not more attacks. Maybe we’ve changed that.”