Wait—does that mean I’m on your video now?”
“Don’t worry—we can cut that bit when we get home. Ready, guys?”
His wife and children muttered noncommittally.
“Three…two…one…”
The image jerked slightly as the tugboat hit, as if the old man had realized at the last second what was happening and recoiled. The screen went white, then tumbled end over end in a blur of sky and fire and dirt.
When the CNN anchor reappeared, Thompson rewound the feed and played it again. Then O’Brien called Nakamura back in and had him put it up on the big screen.
They watched it through a second time, people from the bullpen drifting through the open conference-room door to watch, their faces slack with horror. When it finished, O’Brien said, “Is it possible to watch it frame by frame?”
“Sure,” Nakamura replied. He dragged the video’s progress bar back to the beginning and began advancing manually. “This is gonna take forever,” he said. “You want me to skip ahead?”
“Yes,” said O’Brien, but at the same time, Thompson shouted, “No!”
Everybody in the room looked at her. Thompson felt her face go red. Her heart sped up like she’d just mainlined a double espresso. The physical reactions were due not to embarrassment but the thrill of discovery.
“Back it up a bit,” she said. “One frame at a time, just like you were doing before.”
Nakamura complied.
“Slower,” she instructed. “Slower. There! ”
In the frame Nakamura’d stopped on, the old man’s face was plainly visible. He was rawboned and deeply lined. His pale blue eyes glinted in the sunlight. O’Brien looked at him, then at Thompson, who was clearly impatient for her to see what she had seen.
When O’Brien looked at the screen again, it clicked.
“Jesus Christ,” she said. “It can’t be.”
“It is, ” Thompson insisted. “I’d know him anywhere.”
“Who is he?” asked SAIC Russell, who’d come in while the video was playing.
“That,” Thompson said, “is Frank Segreti.”
7.
F RANK SEGRETI WAS running blind. Damn near literally, thanks to that bomb blast. Fucking thing must’ve gone off at least a half an hour ago, and still the afterimage remained, an amorphous blob of green at the center of his vision, obscuring the world around him and forcing him to rely on his peripheral vision. It reminded him of that bank job back in ’82 when he’d tried to cut through the vault door without a welding mask. His crew got the cash out okay, but when the cops showed up and everybody scattered, he nearly got pinched because he couldn’t see a thing and tried to climb into the wrong fucking car.
At least he’d had a moment’s warning before the tugboat detonated. He knew something was hinky when he noticed it was picking up speed the closer it got to the bridge support. At the moment of impact, he flinched, so his forearms were protecting his face when the bomb went off—which was probably the only reason he could see anything at all. The shock wave knocked him off his feet and into the brush that bordered the trail. If those hadn’t cushioned his fall, he almost certainly would’ve broken something. When he came to, smoke tinted the sky the oily brown of an old sepia photograph. Ash rained down from above, gray-white and guttering red. Those poor young lovebirds who’d been perched at the far edge of the trail overlooking the bridge were shredded by debris, and the family who’d stopped him lay unconscious on the trail. Frank wanted to help them, but there was nothing he could do without risking capture, so he fled. He hoped they were okay.
Could the bomb have been meant for him? Frank was unable to discount the idea. If his enemies realized their previous attempt to blow him to kingdom come had failed, they might find a certain pleasing symmetry in another bomb attack. But it didn’t strike him as likely. As far as anybody knew, Frank Segreti was long dead—and anyway, an attack like this
“Don’t worry—we can cut that bit when we get home. Ready, guys?”
His wife and children muttered noncommittally.
“Three…two…one…”
The image jerked slightly as the tugboat hit, as if the old man had realized at the last second what was happening and recoiled. The screen went white, then tumbled end over end in a blur of sky and fire and dirt.
When the CNN anchor reappeared, Thompson rewound the feed and played it again. Then O’Brien called Nakamura back in and had him put it up on the big screen.
They watched it through a second time, people from the bullpen drifting through the open conference-room door to watch, their faces slack with horror. When it finished, O’Brien said, “Is it possible to watch it frame by frame?”
“Sure,” Nakamura replied. He dragged the video’s progress bar back to the beginning and began advancing manually. “This is gonna take forever,” he said. “You want me to skip ahead?”
“Yes,” said O’Brien, but at the same time, Thompson shouted, “No!”
Everybody in the room looked at her. Thompson felt her face go red. Her heart sped up like she’d just mainlined a double espresso. The physical reactions were due not to embarrassment but the thrill of discovery.
“Back it up a bit,” she said. “One frame at a time, just like you were doing before.”
Nakamura complied.
“Slower,” she instructed. “Slower. There! ”
In the frame Nakamura’d stopped on, the old man’s face was plainly visible. He was rawboned and deeply lined. His pale blue eyes glinted in the sunlight. O’Brien looked at him, then at Thompson, who was clearly impatient for her to see what she had seen.
When O’Brien looked at the screen again, it clicked.
“Jesus Christ,” she said. “It can’t be.”
“It is, ” Thompson insisted. “I’d know him anywhere.”
“Who is he?” asked SAIC Russell, who’d come in while the video was playing.
“That,” Thompson said, “is Frank Segreti.”
7.
F RANK SEGRETI WAS running blind. Damn near literally, thanks to that bomb blast. Fucking thing must’ve gone off at least a half an hour ago, and still the afterimage remained, an amorphous blob of green at the center of his vision, obscuring the world around him and forcing him to rely on his peripheral vision. It reminded him of that bank job back in ’82 when he’d tried to cut through the vault door without a welding mask. His crew got the cash out okay, but when the cops showed up and everybody scattered, he nearly got pinched because he couldn’t see a thing and tried to climb into the wrong fucking car.
At least he’d had a moment’s warning before the tugboat detonated. He knew something was hinky when he noticed it was picking up speed the closer it got to the bridge support. At the moment of impact, he flinched, so his forearms were protecting his face when the bomb went off—which was probably the only reason he could see anything at all. The shock wave knocked him off his feet and into the brush that bordered the trail. If those hadn’t cushioned his fall, he almost certainly would’ve broken something. When he came to, smoke tinted the sky the oily brown of an old sepia photograph. Ash rained down from above, gray-white and guttering red. Those poor young lovebirds who’d been perched at the far edge of the trail overlooking the bridge were shredded by debris, and the family who’d stopped him lay unconscious on the trail. Frank wanted to help them, but there was nothing he could do without risking capture, so he fled. He hoped they were okay.
Could the bomb have been meant for him? Frank was unable to discount the idea. If his enemies realized their previous attempt to blow him to kingdom come had failed, they might find a certain pleasing symmetry in another bomb attack. But it didn’t strike him as likely. As far as anybody knew, Frank Segreti was long dead—and anyway, an attack like this
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