Chapter 1
She pulled the curtains back slowly, as if by delaying she could improve what lay behind. But it was the same. Three months and no change. The putrid odor of death filled the cubicle. She reluctantly looked at the body strapped onto the bed in front of her. His wrists and ankles were bound tightly by knotted nylon cords. She was told they were for his own protection, to stop him from inflicting more damage to his body. She looked at the greenish-purple skin puffed over each side of the restraints. One ankle strap was speckled deep red, dry blood, the result of a shackle slicing the soft part of his Achilles tendon. Now, as she had many times before, she thought of untying him. She tried to imagine what would happen if he was free, the involuntary spasms that racked his body allowed to run their course. Yet she knew it was never going to happen. She would not reach over and undo the cords. It had to end without her interference.
She sat on the orange plastic chair next to his bed. Behind her was the rhythmic electronic beep of the nearby pulse monitor. She glanced at the bank of machinery lined against the wall and marveled at the array of devices they used to stop him from dying. There was the oscillating bright green light that indicated his heart was strong, and the assortment of plastic bags filled with clear liquids that trailed down thin tubes ending in needles stuck into his arm. But the room was dominated by one machine-a gleaming steel cylinder topped with a pulsating rubber sack that mimicked an accordion. It expanded and contracted once every two seconds. It sounded like someone in the middle of an asthma attack. From its side a thick ribbed tube extended over the bed's metal rail and into his mouth. She could see where it passed down his throat, bulging his windpipe just under the skin's surface. The tube was secured with wide strips of adhesive tape, pulled tightly across his chin and cheeks. Although the tape was regularly changed, a festering infection had erupted around it. Near the infection were patches of raw, irritated skin from the cheap electric razor they used daily on him. Saliva rolled out of the corner of his mouth and down the tube onto his hospital gown. He was drenched in sweat. She looked at his hair, matted across the damp skull. She remembered more gray, but in this fluorescent-lit cubicle it seemed dark brown. Strange, she thought. Death hovered near this room. Yet she was almost more concerned about his hair color than if he stopped breathing. Whether he lived or died was beyond her control. She was not going to allow herself to go mad worrying. Suddenly her thoughts were interrupted by the bed rattling. His body was heaving.
For ninety days she had made the same visit. Past the two baby-faced military guards at the entrance, past the battery of doctors and nurses that filled the corridors, and inside this cordoned-off section. It was as depressing as a hospital could be. They had put him into a small room painted the universal color of government hospitals, a sickly pale green. But these walls had not been painted in a long time. They were covered in grime accumulated from hundreds of illnesses and deaths. A lone fluorescent tube cast the light. It made people look as green as the walls. She hated the room. She hated the equipment that kept him alive, modern medicine's version of the inquisition. But most of all she hated it when his body started shaking.
He was in the middle of an attack. His 200-pound frame had been whittled by 50 pounds, but his body could still put on a show of strength. His head flopped back and forth to the side, each violent turn yanking the tube in his mouth. His chest continued lifting off the bed and slamming back to the wet mattress, partially pulling out the intravenous tubes from his arms. His legs twitched, the restraints tightening with each spasm and cutting into his already infected skin. The iron lung worked overtime, its mechanical hiss picking up speed to maintain the momentum of the attack. The metronome-like heart monitor emitted a faster and shriller beep as the green lines shot across the computer screen like a supercharged video game. She touched his face. She wanted to stop him. But her palm slipped off his clammy cheek as his head jolted to the other side. And all the while his eyes were glued wide open. His dilated pupils gazed through layers of pain-killing drugs. But the doctors assured her he was comatose. His eyes were open but nothing registered. He was living dead. But they would not let him die. Not yet. They wanted him alive.
Drops of blood formed at the corners of his mouth, the tube's gyrations splitting his lips. Suddenly the beep of the heart monitor and the whoosh of the mechanical lung were overwhelmed by a persistent loud buzzer. The machines were trying to talk to the doctors. Their patient was dying.
The first doctor almost knocked her over when he hurtled through the curtains. Two other men in white gowns were just a step behind. "Hold him firmly," screamed the first man. "Nurse, 10 milligrams of Valium, and load him with Dilantin, now!"
Two of them tried to hold him flat on his back. They pushed against the heaving chest. The wide eyes, the eyes that were not supposed to see anything, were staring at her. A nurse ran into the room holding aloft two syringes.
She had seen enough. They would stabilize him. She had no doubt about it. They had done this almost every day since he had arrived. And when the drugs wore off, the demons that thrashed his body would have another chance to split him open at the seams. She could hear the creaking of the bed and the muffled orders as she walked down the hallway. She glanced at a man in a suit and tie talking to the military guards. Every day it was someone new. There was not a familiar face among them. She did not even bother to say hello. Her mind was busy. She was going to church. She had a lot of praying to do. She was going to ask God that the wretched man in the bed should die.
Three months earlier
London December 13, 10:00 a.m.
It was London's first major winter storm. Fifty-mile-per-hour winds, nonstop sheets of rain and hail, and a deep gray sky made the midmorning seem like dusk. The torrential downpour had cleared the roadways of most holiday traffic, allowing the bright red British postal van to speed along Regent Street and toward Piccadilly. Special deliveries were not unusual in Green Park, one of London's most fashionable neighborhoods. The cream-colored Georgian mansions that lined the narrow roads were the homes of an assortment of government leaders, business magnates, and the aristocracy of the British capital. Messengers, administrative aides, and government postmen delivered packages of importance around the clock.
The postal van slowed near the Ritz Hotel and turned left onto Arlington Street, a private lane. Inside the truck, the rain sounded like a thousand small beating drums. The water streamed so heavily over the windshield that the two postmen could barely see outside. The driver rubbed his long, angular face where a scar extended from the corner of his left eye to the middle of his cheek. He never understood why, but inclement weather made it itch. He had almost forgotten it today, the storm's severity forcing him to concentrate intently on the road. He leaned his head over the steering wheel and close to the windshield, hoping to compensate for the poor visibility. Finally he spotted his destination, one of the grandest homes bordering the park. A turn-of-the-century five-story townhouse, prominent for its grand stone columns, it was separated from the street by a large wrought-iron gate. He parked the van at the granite pathway leading to the front door. Both men adjusted their black rubber parkas and slid their plastic uniform caps snugly on their heads. They exited together and ran through the downpour to the back of the van. They pulled a large cardboard box from the rear and struggled under the weight of the delivery. The rain had turned to a light hail and struck their faces as if dozens of pellets were hurled at them. The strong wind cut through their clothing like a blast from a large freezer. They braced themselves and sloshed to the gate. One of them leaned his shoulder into the intercom.
A hoarse, American-accented voice pierced the static on the box, "Identify yourself."'
"Special delivery from Lisbon. We're from the Golden Square post office."
Nothing happened.
"Please hurry. It's very heavy, mate, and the bloody weather's killing us."
A low, steady buzzer sounded. The shorter postman, with a chubby, pale face, pushed against the massive gate and it slowly opened. Both lowered their heads as if to shield themselves from the slashing hail. They knew that when the gate opened a magnetic hinge fired an electronic circuit that triggered hidden cameras to snap pictures of anyone approaching the mansion. These men did not want their faces captured on film.
At the top of the steps they noticed the raised bronze plaque set into one of the stone columns. It proclaimed the building to be the "Inter-national Society for Research of Childhood Cancers." In a city filled with hundreds of organizational headquarters, this one did not rate a second glance. Drenched, they wiped their faces and rested under a glass awning. A peephole on the front door popped open and a pair of tiny eyes, sandwiched between a thick forehead and fat cheeks, stared at them.
"We just need a signature, mate, and we'll be on our way. Bloody storm�s already got us nearly an hour behind."
The door opened revealing a lavish interior. In front of them was a man resembling a retired boxer. His compact body and broad shoulders advertised his strength. Dressed in a navy blue Notre Dame sweatshirt, a pair of khaki pants, white socks, and battered penny loafers, he looked like he had just arrived with an American package tour. His nose was spread across his solid face. It had clearly been broken several times. There was nothing nice about him. The scarred postman did not like men who had necks thicker than the top of their heads.
"Go on," he muttered to them. "Put it down by the desk and I'll sign whatever you've got." His eyes were alert and scanned the front of the house and then watched every movement of the delivery men. He closed the door to block out the storm. The two again walked with heads lowered, knowing that a video camera recorded their every move. They stopped next to an ornate Louis XIV desk.
"Come on you guys, you're dropping water and mud all over the frigging place, step back over here to me," the retired boxer shouted. As the scarred man stepped toward the staircase, the other postman walked back toward the front door.
"Hey, what the hell do you think you're doing?"
It happened in an instant. The scarred one walking toward the staircase leaned over as if he dropped something. He reached under his parka and whipped out a .45 caliber MAC-10 machine pistol, fitted with a silencer. He knew he had only one shot to get it right. He yanked the pistol under the staircase and placed a bullet into a four-inch square black box. It was the main circuitry for the video surveillance system. The hollow-point, steel jacketed bullet found its target, slicing the main cable. In a fortified basement, a bank of video monitors flickered for a moment, and then went dark.
At the same time, the shorter postman grabbed an eight-inch combat knife from under his slick parka. Before the boxer could react, the postman slammed a knee into his victim's groin and hammered his face with the knife's broad handle. There was a grunt of excruciating pain as the American spun backward. The attacker raced after him and crashed the steel toe of his workboot into the knee, shattering the bone as the boxer dropped to the floor. The intruder jumped on top of the dazed American and shoved the blade of the knife against the fat man's neck.
"Listen, you're going to help us or you're going to die!"
At that moment, a crackled voice came over an intercom by the desk. "Harry, is everything okay up there? We've lost the picture. I think it must be the goddamn storm."
"That's right, Harry, you're going to tell the man everything is okay," the postman commanded. "You're going to get us downstairs or I'm going to carve you up. Take your choice. Now!" Harry's face was bleeding and contorted in pain. His smashed knee was killing him and the ache spreading from his groin was making him sick.
"Fuck you!" Harry spit into the attacker's face, and he flinched. The knife's edge moved away from his neck for a split second. It was all the time he needed. Harry lunged forward with all the strength he could muster. He butted with his head and caught the knife-wielder full in the face. He could hear the crack of the nose as it broke against his forehead. His assailant reeled back and cried out in pain and shock. Blood splattered from his nose and mouth. Harry reached behind his sweatshirt for his Colt .45 automatic pistol. But before he could get it, the scarred gunman at the staircase whirled around and lifted the machine pistol. Five muffled pops cut the air as the slugs tore into Harry's fleshy backside.
Again the intercom crackled. "Harry, what the hell's going on up there? I don't like it when I don't hear anything from you."
Harry was propelled backward, his body sliding across the marble floor and slamming against the front door. He rolled over to look at his killers and once again summoned the strength to reach for his pistol. But his attacker had recovered. He yanked a silencer-equipped 9-millimeter Uzi machine gun from under his parka. He lifted the nozzle and squeezed the trigger, splitting Harry's forehead in two. As the fat body collapsed across the floor, a voice came from the landing.
"What's going on down there? Some of us are trying to get some rest." A young man with curly blond hair appeared at the top of the stairs, He looked drowsy, as if disturbed from a deep sleep. He shuffled halfway down the circular staircase before putting on a pair of wire-rimmed glasses. He saw the two postmen with automatic weapons at the same moment he saw Harry's crumpled body in a widening pool of glistening red. He turned to run, but two .45 caliber bullets cut into his left leg, exploding the kneecap. His body slumped onto the stairs and slid to the bottom of the landing.
"Harry, if you don't answer me in a minute, I'm going to sound an alert to headquarters' security desk." Again the intercom carried the voice belonging to the security guard sitting in front of a half dozen blank video monitors. "If you're just screwing around they're going to put our asses in the wringer."
The two gunmen sprinted to the young man. The scarred one grabbed a handful of hair and yanked his head into the air. The wounded man's eyes were dilated and he was breathing heavily. He 'was going into shock.
"Listen real good if you want to live; You do what I say right now or I'll finish what I began!"
He violently shook the young man's head and the dazed eyes rattled. He grabbed him by the belt on his pants and dragged him to the desk across the room.' The punctured leg left a trail of red on the floor. The scarred killer grabbed the young man's hand and slammed it flat against the desk. Then he pressed the knife's blade across the knuckles.'
"Now, when I push this button you're going to tell the guard downstairs that a couple of postmen came to deliver a package and one of them has' keeled over. You think it's a heart attack. Your fat dead friend over there is helping the poor sick postman and that's why he's not answering the intercom. If you don't do it just as I told you, then I am going to cut your fingers off and stuff them down your throat until you choke to death. Now let's see if you're not quite as stupid as that dead piece of shit in the corner."
The other gunman reached over and pressed the intercom. The young man was terrified. Nothing came out of his mouth.' The blade was pressed harder.
....... uh, Pete, eh, it's me, Malcolm. We've got a problem up here."
"What the fuck is going on? I can't see anything and where is Harry? You sound terrible."
"Yeah, yeah, terrible." The knife was pushed deeper, the skin was about to burst. "A couple of mailmen, uh, they came with a delivery and one of the guys, eh, it kinda looks like he might have died. I think it's a heart attack. Harry's working on the guy but it doesn't look good."
"Harry doesn't know anything about saving anybody," said the voice over the intercom. "I'll come up with one of the doctors. Just sit tight."
"Nice work, kid," the scarred man smiled. Then without warning he plunged the knife into the young man's throat. The blade pierced the windpipe and stopped only when it hit the base of the skull. The dead man's eyes bulged wide as a gush of blood shot from his mouth. The killer yanked out the knife, and the body dropped into a ball by the desk.
The two men tore off their parkas, revealing commando vests. On each they carried extra magazine clips for their automatic weapons, four concussion hand grenades, Beretta 9-millimeter automatic pistols, and two combat knives. They dashed to the box they had carried inside the townhouse and ripped it open. They knew the security guard and doctor would arrive in less than thirty seconds. The attackers pulled out gas masks and put them on. These were not ordinary masks purchased in an army surplus store. They were state-of-the-art. Each contained wireless microphones for easy communication. They had Darth Vader-like wraparound mirrored visors set over the eyes. A microchip embedded in the glass automatically adjusted the temperature between the wearer's perspiration and the gas in the room, always maintaining perfect vision. Minichip sensors pinpointed body heat, electronically locating people even before the human eye could see them. And the mirror finish made it impossible to identify the person inside. The attackers knew once they were downstairs, hidden cameras randomly took pictures, and the masks rendered the photos useless.
The gunmen ignored the four square incendiary devices and the six high-density plastic explosives, each capable of obliterating a floor of the mansion. Instead they grabbed four polished aluminum cylinders, resembling bloated, aerosol cans. In under ten seconds the security guard and doctor would arrive. They placed the canisters in the center of the room and ran to the rear mahogany-paneled wall. Each crouched in a combat position.
"Remember, take out the guard but leave the doctor alive," an electronic muzzled voice sounded inside the gas masks.
Suddenly the mahogany wall started lifting from the marble floor. The whir of electric motors became louder as the wall slowly rose, reve4ling two pairs of legs. Behind the moving panel one person wore a doctor's white gown. The killers steadied their machine guns. One of the figures behind the sliding wall moved forward quickly. He bent over to enter the main floor. A middle-aged face with a walrus mustache looked into the room, "Harry, where-"
They were his only words. A 9-millimeter shell slammed into his temple. The bullet propelled the body backward. The second gunman let loose with the MAC-10. Four shots sliced into the doctor's legs, spinning him onto the floor. Red splotches spread across his pressed gown. He groaned as he tried to reach a panel of buttons. The mahogany wall had stopped moving. The two killers faced a stainless steel elevator. Hidden behind the wall, it only serviced a secret underground complex.
The second security guard was as dead as Harry. He was sprawled against the back of the elevator, his shattered head twisted as though staring back at his killers. The doctor was panicked. His breathing was erratic and his body trembled. He frantically turned between the two masked figures cradling automatic weapons and the elevator control panel just inches beyond his outstretched fingers.
One of the attackers pulled a third gas mask from the box and slipped it over the terrified doctor. He bound the doctor's hands with adhesive tape.
"Don't try to free yourself, Doc. That stuff's strong enough to hold a 300-pound man. Just want to make sure you don't do anything stupid like taking your mask off. We don't want to see you dead. Yet." He looked at his partner. "Let's do it."
They planted two bloated canisters on the staircase. Then they used keys to unlock levers on the side of the polished cylinders. They slowly pulled the levers clockwise. A small hole popped open on top of each canister.
The two men sprinted back to the elevator, carrying their automatic weapons and the other canisters. One pressed the console's Down button and the mahogany wall began closing. When it blocked out the last crack of light, the elevator lurched and started descending.
"Those little cans are filled with something you're familiar with, Doc. VX-cyber gas." The doctor looked up at the attackers. He could not see their faces, but he had no doubt they were telling the truth. He was astonished to hear the words. VX-cyber was a classified Soviet nerve weapon. According to the protocols of the' 1975 germ warfare treaty the gas was destroyed. It had never been used on the public. But the doctor knew all about it. He had even seen exact replicas created. Released in small concentrations it spread quickly over a wide area. The first inhalation caused the lungs' bronchial linings to expand uncontrollably. The gas caused an instantaneous shock to the central nervous system, knocking the body into an epileptic fit. As the victim shook violently, the lungs swelled until they exploded. Certain death in less than a minute. Yet the gas had a half-life of only six minutes. In the atmosphere it was useless' in ten minutes. Exposed to moisture, it lost its potency immediately. That was why the Soviets were willing to eliminate it. Its use was too limited. But it was ideal in a setting like this. The doctor knew the gas had already killed the people in the top of the mansion. If any gas escaped outside, the London storm would instantly destroy it. And in ten minutes anyone could safely enter the house and there would be virtually no trace of the killer vapor.
Suddenly the elevator jolted to a halt. The ride took less than twenty seconds. The elevator's rear panels opened wide, revealing a small, metal-lined cubicle. Less than five feet in front of them was a massive steel door, as imposing as the entrance to a bank vault. The only object in the small crypt was a thin black column topped with a sheet of opaque glass. The killers knew what they wanted was on the other side of the steel door.
"C'mon, Doc, time to go to work." One of the gunmen grabbed the doctor by his collar and dragged him to the black pillar. The doctor was about to faint, the pain in his wounded legs was excruciating.
"Hold on, Doc, there's not much you have to do. Don't conk out on us now."
He cut the tape binding the doctor's bloody hands and wiped one of the palms. "See, we know all about your little fingerprint ID machine. We can't get inside because our prints aren't in the computer's brain. So all you eggheads think once that door closes behind you, then your asses are safe because this damn device will only let a friend through. And we also know this little bugger has a special circuit to pick up a pulse, so you can't put down a picture of the print and fool it like in the old days. You can't even cut off someone's hand and place it on the glass because the fucking machine will know you're dead and won't let us in. Now wouldn't that be terrible after we've come all this way?"
The mirrored visor tilted toward the doctor. The doctor�s fear kept him from speaking. Only muffled grunts of pain came over the miniature speakers inside the gas masks. The white gown was drenched in blood from the waist down. His eyes were pleading for mercy but the gunmen could not see them.
The killer grabbed the doctor's clean hand and pressed it firmly over
the opaque glass. A light flashed and a toneless computerized voice came through a small ceiling speaker, "Good morning Dr. Schwartz." There was a loud click and the steel door rolled open, revealing a spotless white corridor, some twenty feet long. The scarred gunman looked, at the doctor.
"Thanks," he said, and he pumped a burst of bullets into his chest. He turned to his partner. "C'mon, let's finish this. We'll collect his mask on the way out."
They walked slowly into the underground complex. On the right was the security office; a wall of blank video screens faced an empty chair and a still steaming cup of coffee. To their left, a pair of aluminum swinging doors signaled the complex's main work station and computer room. The two killers swung into action. One ran to the end of the corridor. To an untrained eye it looked as though he had reached a solid metal wall. But the gunmen knew it was the hermetically sealed entrance to a sophisticated testing laboratory. Ground zero for their mission. No gas could penetrate the door's seals. But if their intelligence information was right, the entrance would open in less than a minute for a scheduled change of duty. They opened the locks on the cylinders and turned the levers in a half circle. Another fraction would release the gas.
On schedule there was a loud click at the steel shield.
"Here it is!" came an excited voice inside the gas masks.
The panel raised quickly, revealing a man and woman in white medical gowns, walking briskly toward the closest gunman. The two doctors saw the automatic weapon at the same moment. As panic crossed their faces the first silenced bursts hammered them. The nearest doctor took the bullets in an ascending pattern starting at the stomach and slicing toward the neck. The second doctor was struck at her jaw and ear, the hollow point bullets exiting in gaping holes at the back of her skull. Splashes of vibrant red cascaded down the sides and off the low ceiling of the glistening white corridor. The gunman grabbed the canister, sprinted down the corridor, and burst into the laboratory. On three walls were banks of scientific equipment, crammed above counters of the smoothest polished stainless steel. Three doctors shot up from their work to face the intruder. They were professionals. They rushed to destroy their specimens and records. They never had a chance.
The gunman hurled the canister. It crashed against a row of microscopes and bounced into a large display of empty testing vials, sending splinters of glass flying around the lab. The three doctors had barely moved when they doubled over in pain. Within seconds they crashed to the floor, each body thrashing uncontrollably. Screams of agony bounced off the hard walls.
At the other end of the hallway the pale gunman had set off the final gas canister. Inside the gleaming, high-tech research center, twisted among video monitors and computerized testing machines, two more scientists were in their death throes. The gunman sprinted past the convulsing victims into the computer center, where an operator was sprawled on the floor, blood streaming from his mouth.
"We've got ten minutes to wrap this," came the voice in the gas mask. They systematically set about completing their mission. They collected the bodies from the underground complex, another from the mansion's upper floors, and dumped them into the entrance hall together with Harry and those killed at the massacre's start. A small sack was opened and what appeared to be dust and dark brown chips was sprinkled under the bodies. Miniature incendiary devices were stuck around the pile of corpses. The four large incendiary packets were attached to the mainframe computers and memory banks. The six high-density plastic explosives were scattered, two on the upper floors and four in the underground complex. All the destructive devices were joined by a coordinated trip-timer ensuring the explosions and fires were orchestrated to the millisecond.
"Everything's set. One last thing and we're out of here," came the message inside the gas masks.
Inside the testing lab, the pale-faced killer settled in front of a computer terminal. He programmed a series of access codes. Their intelligence was right. The code was correct. The computer responded by releasing microchip locks on a floor hatch in a corner of the lab. The scarred gunman ran and yanked open the hatch, revealing a narrow vertical tunnel. While his partner stood guard, he climbed down a series of metal rungs until he reached a small landing. He faced a temperature-controlled metal safe embedded in concrete. He knew it was lined with electromagnetic explosive strips that would destroy the entire tunnel if there was any forced entry. He squatted in front of the safe and studied a computerized digital lock, with an adjoining keypad. Again, intelligence had given him an access code that changed daily. He pressed twenty-six digits into the keypad and when the last number was entered, the locker's door pushed open.
"We've got it!" he proclaimed.
Inside were ten plastic strips, each containing five small metal cylinders, resembling silver lipsticks. Each was hermetically sealed with bulbous aluminum caps. The cylinders contained a yellow-reddish liquid. That is what the killers sought. Stored underneath were two small beakers, each containing a clear solution and also topped with the aluminum stoppers. The gunman gingerly placed the cylinders and beakers into a leather bag designed for the operation. Each container fit into its own padded compartment and separate pouch. Although the gunman was told that everything was shatterproof, he was not taking any chances.
"I'm coming up. Reach down and take the bag."
He climbed up the tunnel and pushed the duffel through the hatch. They were on their way out. They rode the elevator for the last time, pausing for a moment by the front door.
"Are you sure you checked every room on the upper floor? No unexpected visitors?"
"No one. I was careful. Besides, we got a full count on the number in the house. You worry too much. Between the gas and blowing this place, no one's coming out but us."
The scarred killer looked at a digital display on a small square box resembling a calculator. He programmed the keypad, set the figures at "2.00," and pressed a green button at the top. The numbers began flashing down by hundredths of seconds.
They opened the front door and exited with their backs to the street, removing their gas masks under the awning. It was done so quickly that no one noticed them. The storm was still battering London. Torrential rain splashed all around. They threw the masks into a satchel and skipped down the stairs. The cameras only caught pictures of their backs. Even if the film, maintained in fireproof locks, survived the coming explosions, their identities would remain a mystery. They were inside the postal van in thirty seconds.
Traffic was light for midmorning central London. They sped by the festive Christmas decorations at Selfridge's and passed the bright holiday trappings at Piccadilly Circus. The noise of the truck and beating of the rain covered the thunder of the first explosions that ripped apart the house. Reverse-cycle detonators pulled the force of the blasts inward. Virtually no debris flew outside. The resulting fires, fueled by plastic inflammatories set among the explosives, raged until mid-afternoon. By then the entire complex was gutted, the dead bodies just a heap of ashes.
From the edge of Green Park, a group of men watched the fire burn out of control. They did not mingle with the television news crews that scurried to cover the story nor did they get near the police and fire brigades that manned the area. These men had been dispatched within minutes of the blasts to assess the damage. By noon they had seen enough. They left the scene in two cars speeding down Regent Street. Washington was waiting for their report.
Copyright, 1989, by Gerald Posner Google+
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