55

The acting NSA hit a button and the video began to play.

But McDermott could not watch. He had already seen the video twice.

The first images —all full-color —and accompanying sound track were hardly troubling. A chyron in the top right corner of the screen indicated this portion of video was courtesy of a Sky News feed to its satellite track.

The American motorcade arrives. DSS agents open the doors of the lead sedan. Evans and Davis emerge. The two walk unescorted up Downing Street, smiling at the media but refusing to answer any of the questions shouted by the press corps. As they approach the front door to Number 10, they stop, continue smiling. Suddenly a man yells, “Allahu akbar!” —“God is great” in Arabic —and then the video feed is cut.

The next portion of video was in black-and-white and silent. The chyron in the top right corner indicated that these images were from one of the British government surveillance cameras. McDermott winced as he heard the room gasp. In his mind’s eye, he could see the images running in slow motion as an explosion erupted from the center of the press pool. There was a brilliant burst of light, and the lens of the surveillance camera cracked. Still, for about ten seconds one could see the devastation. No longer were Evans and Davis visible. No longer were any members of the media visible. Fires raged and thick black smoke billowed to the sky.

The scene cut to the angle of a dashcam in one of the vehicles in the American motorcade. This feed ran in slow motion. Very slow. And this time, the room was completely silent as they watched Evans and Davis vaporize, frame by frame.

Only then did McDermott reopen his eyes, though he still didn’t look at the screen. There was no way he could watch his boss and one of his closest friends obliterated for the third time in one day. He did, however, want to watch the president’s reaction as he watched the next set of images.

Video footage taken by an MI5 crime scene investigative team began to play, without any audio. Buckets of blood and small bits of body parts were everywhere. Occasionally a scorched shoe with part of a foot was visible or an individual finger wearing a wedding ring. Not once, however, could one find a head or a face or discernible limbs. This was worse than any moment McDermott had ever experienced in combat or any horror movie he had ever seen. Tears were streaming down Whitney’s face, but to her credit she continued to watch. Foster watched stone-faced. Stephens, though he had already seen it four times, watched it again even more carefully this time, looking for clues he might have missed before. Clarke was white as a ghost. For the entire four minutes and twenty-seven seconds, he just stared at the flickering screen, at once mesmerized and horrified by the images that were unfolding.

Finally the nightmare was over. McDermott hit the Stop button and turned off the monitor, then brought the lights back up. For several minutes no one said a word. Then Whitney, wiping her eyes with a cloth handkerchief she’d taken from her pocketbook, asked the president if it would be all right if they said a prayer. Clarke nodded and asked Cal Foster, an elder in his Presbyterian church, if he would lead them. When he agreed, they all bowed their heads and closed their eyes.

“Amen. Thank you, Cal,” Clarke said when they were finished.

Then he turned back to the director of Central Intelligence. “So clearly this was a suicide bomber —but you still haven’t told me how they got the bomb past the Brits’ security.”

“Honestly, Mr. President, that’s what has us all baffled,” Stephens replied. “Every member of the press corps went through a standard security screening process, no less professional than what happens here at the White House every day. The Brits certainly would have spotted a vest filled with explosives.”

“Could the bomb have been concealed in one of the TV cameras?” Foster asked. “That’s how a team of al Qaeda operatives killed Commander Ahmed Massoud on September 9, 2001, just two days before the attacks on us, Mr. President. Massoud was a powerful Afghan warlord. He was vehemently opposed to the rule of the Taliban. Osama bin Laden decided to take him out, to complicate what he knew would be an American retaliation for what was coming. So he sent three jihadists to pose as a TV news crew, and boom, no more Massoud.”

“All true, but highly improbable in this case,” Stephens said. “Every piece of equipment brought by the media was run through X-ray scanners, bomb sniffers, and hand checks, just like we do here. I don’t see any possible way the Brits missed a thing, much less a bomb large enough to do that much damage.”

“What about a drone?” Whitney asked.

“No, not possible,” Stephens answered. “The Brits have a very sophisticated antidrone system they bought from the Israelis years ago. Believe me, they’re watching for this stuff, all of it. I spoke to the head of MI5 twice today, as well as to the head of MI6. They have absolutely no idea how someone pulled this off or who could have done it. And that’s what’s freaking out everyone in my office right now, because if these terrorists have figured out how to blindside the Brits, who’s to say they couldn’t do it to us?”

Once again, it was quiet for a while. Then Secretary Whitney spoke up.

“Mr. President, clearly Richard and his team and the FBI are going to do everything in their power to hunt down those responsible for these attacks and bring them to justice,” she began. “But right now, what we in this room really need to discuss is your trip to Jerusalem.”

“No,” said the president. “That won’t be necessary.”

“Sir,” said Whitney, “I know that you have very strong feelings about this, but —”

Clarke, however, cut her off. “I’m not going, Meg.”

She looked stunned. They all were stunned.

“I’ve seen enough,” the president said quietly. “There’s no way I’m going to let the terrorists win. I’m still going to give the speech and lay out the plan, but I’m not going to put any more Americans in harm’s way to do it. I’ll give the speech here, in the Oval Office. But for now, I’ve got more pressing matters. If you’ll all excuse me, I need to go call more grieving spouses and then address the nation.”