Sami had arrived at the crime scene just three hours after the blast. He’d been standing in one of the J. Edgar Hoover Building’s many bunker-like rooms, recommending that the national threat level be raised to Red (severe), at a joint meeting between the CIA, the FBI and Homeland Security, when the bomb went off. It had taken just over two hours for the FBI jet, a Gulfstream G550, to fly him and the FBI counterterrorism chiefs from Washington DC to Alabama. He could see a couple of the men he’d flown in with on the other side of the tape. Now wearing their unmistakable FBI jackets – the three letters blazing bright yellow on their backs – they strutted around the scene like they owned it. Which, effectively, they did: the CIA had very little power domestically.

Sami was happy to observe from afar until Maverick arrived from Langley, Virginia, where he’d been at the time of the attack. His CIA jet had left the George Bush Center for Intelligence fourteen minutes after Sami’s plane had departed Washington DC. He should have been here by now.

ANOTHER fifteen minutes passed before Maverick arrived in a blacked-out sedan.

‘You have got to be kidding me,’ he said as he approached. ‘You’re vaping? What are you, a hipster now? You gonna move to Brooklyn too?’

‘It is called an electronic nicotine delivery system,’ Sami said. ‘Doctor’s orders.’ Sami had been on a non-voluntary health kick since he’d had a minor heart attack a few months prior. The vaping was new, though – after months of badgering and guilt trips from his ex-wife, he’d finally pulled the trigger and thrown his real cigarettes away.

‘Yeah, right,’ Mav said. ‘Which doctor told you to fill your lungs with that shit? It’ll still kill you, you know.’

‘No, seriously,’ Sami said. ‘These things aren’t bad for you. It’s only water vapour and nicotine, none of that shit that causes cancer.’

‘They said the same thing about cigarettes thirty years ago,’ Mav replied. ‘But I’m not complaining. Smells a whole lot better than the Camels.’

‘Anyway, what took you?’ Sami asked.

Mav shrugged. ‘Weather.’ He turned away from Sami and surveyed the scene. ‘What’s the count?’

Sami looked at the first row of body bags. ‘At least fourteen,’ he said as he handed Mav a pair of blue cotton crime scene booties. He waited for him to put them over his shoes before lifting the yellow tape. But then he faltered, and stood staring into space for ten seconds or so before whipping out his phone.

‘What are you doing?’ Mav asked.

‘Setting a timer. We have a month to stop this from happening again.’

Thirty-one days and counting, thought Sami.

CHAPTER 18

Sydney, NSW, Australia