54

THE WHITE HOUSE SITUATION ROOM, WASHINGTON, D.C.

By sundown, Marcus was back in Washington.

Upon landing at Reagan National, he took a cab directly to the White House, a last-minute request of Director Stephens. Having no time to go home to change, Marcus found himself standing at attention in the Situation Room wearing not a suit and tie but ripped blue jeans, a black T-shirt, and a North Face fleece. The president, who had begun the morning speaking at a fund-raising breakfast in Los Angeles, had landed back at Joint Base Andrews less than an hour ago. His motorcade had just pulled onto the White House grounds moments earlier, and he now rushed into the room for his first formal briefing.

Around the table were Stephens, an ashen-faced Secretary of State Meg Whitney, Defense Secretary Cal Foster, and Bill McDermott, who was now serving as the acting national security advisor. The VP was on Air Force Two, returning from meetings in Brazil. The secretary of Homeland Security was also on a plane, coming back to D.C. from a visit to the Texas border. The FBI director was on a plane bound for London.

“Where are we?” Clarke said after asking everyone to sit.

Stephens nodded to McDermott, who pressed several buttons on the console before him, lowering the lights and turning on the large flat-screen monitor on the far wall. Displayed were pictures of each of the Americans killed in London.

“So far, we have eight Americans dead,” he explained. “In addition to General Barry Evans and Dr. Susan Davis, six American journalists were killed in the blast.”

Marcus stared at the faces, his fists clenched and jaw tight. Then he lowered his head in the darkness and said a silent prayer for their families and friends. After a full minute, Stephens called for the next slide.

“Twenty-three British citizens were also killed,” the CIA director continued as more victims’ faces were projected on the screen. “They included two police officers, but mostly they were journalists and photographers. Next slide. In addition, nine others died in the blast, a combination of reporters, producers, and cameramen, mostly from European countries.”

“Injuries?” Clarke asked.

“Next slide,” said Stephens. “Yes, sir, they were extensive. Another thirty-one people —Americans, Brits, and others —were injured, some quite severely. At the moment, at least six lives are hanging by a thread. We may not know for several more hours if they are going to make it.”

“I don’t see any DSS agents among the dead,” said the president.

“That’s true, sir. Not a single DSS agent was killed, but Agents Geoff Stone and Kailea Curtis were cut up pretty badly by flying glass and shrapnel.”

“I don’t understand,” Clarke said. “How did Stone and Curtis survive if Evans and Davis didn’t?”

“Protocol,” interjected Defense Secretary Foster.

“I’m sorry?” Clarke asked.

“The Brits don’t permit bodyguards to stand close to their protectees when they come down Downing Street,” Foster explained. “It’s partly tradition and partly optics. They want photos of principals entering Number 10 on their own, not with aides and certainly not surrounded by agents. It’s been that way forever. I’ve seen it dozens of times myself.”

“Could Barry and Susan have survived if their agents had been closer?”

“No, sir. They would all have been killed instantly.”

“So where exactly were Agents Stone and Curtis standing?”

“Next slide,” said Stephens.

On-screen now was a diagram of the site. The DCI used a laser pointer to show where the front door to Number 10 was and where the motorcade had stopped.

“The agents were at least twenty yards from Evans and Davis. Stone and Curtis were standing behind their vehicles, holding open the doors, when the explosion occurred. Other agents were still in their vehicles.”

“That’s what saved their lives?” Clarke asked.

“Yes, sir, it is.”

“How long will they be in the hospital?”

Stephens turned to the secretary of state. “Meg, do you have that?”

“At least till this weekend, Mr. President,” Whitney replied. “I spoke to each of the agents a few hours ago, beginning with Stone and Curtis. They’re all doing quite well physically. Emotionally, of course, it’s hitting them pretty hard.”

“I imagine so,” Clarke said. “Get me their numbers, Meg. I’d like to call them all myself.”

“That would mean a lot to them, sir. We’ll do that right away.”

“Good, now talk to me about suspects. Do we have any?”

“No, sir,” said Stephens.

“Has anyone claimed responsibility?”

“No, not yet.”

“No one?” Clarke asked, incredulous. “Again?”

“I’m afraid not, sir.”

“Then tell me we have some solid leads. I mean, how did they get the bomb past security to begin with?”

“Well, sir, the problem is the scene is a complete mess. The bomb went off in the press pool. It was so powerful, we don’t have a single body intact. To be honest, we have absolutely no idea how the attack was executed. Neither do the Brits.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I can explain it to you, or I can show you the video that MI5 sent us.”

“The video, of course.”

“Are you sure, Mr. President? It’s worse than anything I’ve ever seen before.”

“Show me,” Clarke said, looking Stephens in the eye. “I want to see exactly what these bastards have done to our people.”