Captain Bill Forrester’s small English Tudor was on a quiet street, in an equally quiet neighborhood in North Arlington, Virginia. Everything about it suggested it was inhabited by a normal, unassuming citizen-right down to the green-gray Subaru Outback parked in the driveway. What gave him away as something more were the Marine Corps and POW flags hanging from a pole above the front door.
Parking his car in the street and walking up the flagstone pathway, Gary Lawlor hoped the Subaru meant that somebody was home. He rang the doorbell and waited.
Moments later a solidly built man in his mid-fifties with salt-and-pepper hair cut high and tight, answered the door and said, “Can I help you?”
Gary raised his ID and said, “Captain Forrester?”
“Yes?” replied the marine.
“I’m Agent Lawlor from the Department of Homeland Security. I’m investigating the terrorist attacks of this afternoon and I need to ask you a few questions.”
“Why would you want to talk to me?”
“May I come inside, please?”
Forrester opened the screen door and showed Lawlor inside to a bland kitchen with cheap cabinets and yellow wallpaper. He pointed to a table with a view of the backyard and told his visitor to have a seat. “Can I get you something to drink?” he asked.
“I’ll take a beer if you’ve got it,” replied Gary. “It’s been a long day.”
Forrester didn’t know what to make of a Federal agent having a beer on company time, but something told him this DHS operative was not all he seemed to be. “You want a glass?” he asked as he withdrew two beers from the fridge.
“Please.”
Forrester poured the beers, handed one to Lawlor, and said, “What can I do for the Department of Homeland Security?”
Gary slid the printouts of three service photos Olson had e-mailed him across the table. “Do you recognize these men?”
The captain studied the photographs for a moment, slid them back across the table, and said, “No, I don’t.”
“If you need a little more time, that’s okay.”
“I’m pretty good with faces, Agent Lawlor. If I say I don’t recognize someone, I don’t recognize them.”
“From your glowing assessments, I would have thought these marines unforgettable.”
The man was toying with him, and Forrester didn’t like it. “What do you want?”
Removing the rest of the photos and sliding them across the table, Lawlor replied, “I want to talk about the recruiting operation you’ve been running out of the Marine Security Battalion.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I’ve read assessment reports for each of the marines in those pictures and they were all written by you.”
Forrester took a long swallow of beer, using the time to carefully craft his response. As he set the glass down on the table he looked at Lawlor and said, “I assess hundreds of marines every year. So what?”
“Not like these. These marines were exceptional, and eighteen months ago the ones you gave the highest marks to dropped off the grid.”
The captain rolled the base of his glass on the tabletop and fixed his guest with a steady gaze. “You’re talking to the wrong guy.”
“Why? Because you really don’t know what I’m talking about or you were just following orders? Captain Forrester, I don’t have a lot of time, so I’m going to cut to the chase. Of those marines, the first three I showed you are dead. They were killed today, we think by the same group responsible for blowing up the bridges and tunnels in New York, and something tells me that more marines are going to die very soon if you don’t help me out.”