NEW YORK CITY
Saturday, early evening
As Pip drove the SUV into the garage beneath 26 Federal Plaza, Cal said, “After this press conference it seems to me we’re done here. You ready to go home, Sherlock?”
Sherlock saw Nasim’s face as he’d died in her arms, felt the familiar burn of tears. She didn’t think she’d ever accept the unfairness of it all. She said, “I’m more than ready.”
Kelly waited for Pip to pull into a parking space and turn off the engine. “The press conference is happening in about”—she looked down at her watch—“half an hour. Director Comey will be there himself. It’s a big deal, puts the spotlight square on the FBI. This will be the first time the American people will hear about who Nasim really was and about how he was murdered by the terrorists, and how we managed to save his family. Afterward, well, sorry, guys, but neither of you is leaving. The change of plans came from on high.”
She patted Sherlock’s hand. “You’ll be front and center, the face of the FBI on this one, the agent who fought off this terrorist attack, America’s heroine. I wouldn’t be surprised if they trot out Father Joseph Reilly and Romeo Rodriguez, too. So take a few minutes and think about what you’re going to say.” She raised her hand when Sherlock shook her head, started to open her mouth. “Director Comey doesn’t want you to leave New York. He’s very proud of you, proud you’re an FBI agent, and that means after the press conference, he’s not about to let anything happen to you. You’ve already been shot at and threatened by Jamil, on orders from his terrorist bosses. That means you’ll be staying close to me until it’s over, or until we have assurances you’re not a target.” She looked at Cal, and couldn’t prevent a small smile. “As for you, Mr. Hotshot, you’ll be staying on as her bodyguard. I’ve got to say you’ve come in pretty handy so far. You up for it?”
Exactly a half-hour later, Special Agent Lacey Sherlock stood next to Director Comey on the dais set up outside for the press conference. They had a full media turnout.
Director Comey looked over the microphone at the sea of media faces. In his usual professional and organized way, he walked everyone step-by-step through each FBI action following the attacks at JFK and St. Patrick’s Cathedral. He told them of the death of Nasim Conklin while in FBI custody, his murder enabled by Nasim himself, who sacrificed himself up in an attempt to save his family, and the shooting and capture of his murderer, Jamil Nazari, and he explained the reason for the delay in announcing his death—the FBI had been following critical leads obtained from Nasim Conklin by Agent Sherlock prior to his death.
Director Comey ended with their successes—the death of three terrorists holding Nasim Conklin’s family in Connecticut and the family’s safe rescue.
He thanked the New York Field Office, the Boston Field Office, and the New York Joint Antiterrorism Task Force for their efforts thus far, explained they would continue to pursue other members of the terrorist group but could not identify them definitively at this time. He did not refer to the Strategist specifically; that was to be kept close for now. He answered a number of the media’s questions, clarifying what he could but giving away no other details of the investigation. He gave a rueful smile. “I don’t pretend to believe you came here to listen to me.” He turned to Sherlock, smiled at her, shook her hand, said to the sea of faces, “I’d like to introduce Special Agent Lacey Sherlock. The Bureau is very grateful to her for her quick actions at JFK on Wednesday afternoon, which saved many lives, and for being instrumental in securing the safe recovery of the Conklin family in Connecticut earlier today.” He shook her hand and held it, smiling widely as dozens of camera flashes went off. He leaned down, whispered, “You’re the face of the FBI. Get used to it. Smile for the world.”
Sherlock stepped to the microphone. The sudden silence was unnerving after the constant buzz of voices from the overflowing plaza. She looked out toward a dozen vans hunkered up as close as they could park, paused when she recognized some of the media faces familiar from the nightly news. All of them were staring at her, restraining themselves, but obviously chomping at the bit to yell out their questions and, they hoped, get the sound bite of the day.
Sherlock wished Dillon were standing beside her, but he wasn’t; she was on her own. She pulled the microphone close and said clearly, “I want to emphasize that Nasim Conklin was not a terrorist. He was a man forced by terrorists holding his family to do what he did. I don’t know if I could have stopped him if not for his hesitation brought by the horror he felt at what he was being made to do. In the end, he helped us free his family.” She couldn’t help it, she blinked away tears. She was unaware that her hands, resting on the dais, were clenched into fists. “Let me say that the terrorists who did this to him, the terrorists who would not have hesitated to murder his family, would have succeeded were it not for the men and women here today who rescued them.” She called out the names of Agent Kelly Giusti and Agent Chris Tyson of the Boston Field Office, nodded to them.
She raised her voice. “I hope the people behind this are watching, because they should know we will find them, and we will bring them to justice.”
She stepped back. Director Comey looked at his watch, looked back at the large group of people, and said, “We have a few minutes for questions.”
Martin Chivers from The New York Times had his own microphone and didn’t have to yell. His deep voice drowned out the other voices. “Can you tell us anything more about who these terrorists are, what group is behind the attempted bombing of Saint Patrick’s?”
Director Comey said, “You know I will not speculate. Nor can I give out any information that might compromise our investigation. There are many leads we are following, myriad details we are working through. We will share those with you as we are able.” Comey knew he’d spouted the party line, no choice but to say everything and nothing at all.
Then came NBC’s Lois Nedrick’s little-girl voice. “Agent Sherlock, what are your plans now?”
Comey stepped aside and Sherlock moved close to the microphone. “The Bureau has asked me to stay on here in New York to pursue the investigation. After we have apprehended those responsible for these terrorist attacks, I plan to go home to my husband and son. For some R and R.” That brought a few laughs.
There was a jumble of voices before Mark Allen of FOX managed to outshout everyone else. “Director Comey, do you believe the bombing of the TGV in France today is tied to the attempted bombing of Saint Pat’s?”
There it was, the eight-hundred-pound gorilla.
Director Comey looked out into the sea of faces. His first inclination was to duck the question, but instead he said, “We are in contact with the French authorities and will continue to be. As yet we have no direct proof, but in my opinion, yes, there is no question in my mind the two acts are tied together.”
Mark Allen picked it up before Director Comey had finished taking a breath: “A newly appointed French minister was killed in that explosion. Vice President Foley and dozens of other high-ranking officials were in attendance at the attempted bombing at Saint Pat’s. Do you believe these terrorist attacks could have been intended not only to destroy national treasures, but to kill national leaders or specific individuals?”
Comey had expected that question, too. No one was stupid. “Let me say again that the FBI does not yet have information to tie the two attacks together. There has as yet been no credible announcement by any group taking responsibility for these attacks, or their stated goals. Both have the hallmarks of terrorist operations. But as you said, the attempted assassination of public officials in high-profile public venues goes beyond what we’ve seen from terrorist attacks in the past, and it raises serious questions.”
Harold Carver from NPR started to speak, but a stout woman shoved him from behind. As he windmilled to regain his balance, she yelled out, “Agent Sherlock, what about you? What is your personal opinion?”
Sherlock shot a look at Comey, who nodded. She said, “I personally cannot imagine what a terrorist supposedly feels when he’s managed to murder innocent people. Is he pleased? Is he dancing for joy at the sheer number of people he’s robbed of their lives? Is he convinced he is fulfilling his duty to Allah? Is his hatred so great for those who believe differently that their destruction is all that matters to him?”
She paused, shook her head. “Whatever those people’s motivation, they are not wise enough to represent God on earth. In my experience, many of them are violent psychopaths and self-serving egotists. I believe such individuals are behind these attacks.” Are you out there, listening?
Director Comey finished it. “Thank you all for coming. We will keep you informed. If you have further questions, please submit them to my office.” He stepped off the dais, ignored the loud tide of shouted questions. He paused to shake a few hands as he walked back into 26 Federal Plaza, surrounded by aides and all the agents. He looked back over his shoulder at Sherlock. “You just about invited the Strategist to come after you out there, Agent Sherlock.”
Sherlock never broke stride. I surely hope so. “Someone had to say it.”