by Mike Brogan
“Check if MG&E has a service call at Mrs. Northam’s house.”
Agent Young phoned his MG&E contact, and moments later looked at Laker. “No gas or electric service on this street this week!”
Laker nodded. “Where’s our FBI backup team?”
“Stuck in Route 1 traffic. Ten minutes away!”
“We can’t wait!” Laker said.
“Agreed.”
Both men checked their Glocks, and hurried quickly toward the house. Laker moved up the side drive, paused at a window and peeked between the blinds. He froze at what he saw.
An armed man in a MG&E uniform stood beside Mrs. Northam who looked panicked. The man was shooting iPhone video of something across the room.
Laker leaned left and saw little Mia tied to a chair. Her eyes were red from crying. Beside her, a guy held a large curved dagger. Mia looked terrified.
Is he about to behead her?
Laker considered shooting the man through the window, but feared the guy’s dagger reflex could severely injure Mia. Laker and Young hurried to the rear of the house and saw a Dutch door. The top half was unhinged. Laker eased the top open, reached in, unlocked the door. They stepped into the empty kitchen, moved down a long hall and on a three count, burst into the living room.
“FBI! Hands up!” Laker shouted.
The shocked men spun around toward them. The guy beside Mrs. Northam started to raise his hands, then yanked out a gun.
Laker’s bullets ripped into the guy’s eye and neck. He slumped to the floor and did not move.
The man beside Mia threw his dagger at Agent Young – but missed as Young’s shoulder crushed into his chest and slammed him down hard on the wood floor. The man gasped for breath as Young grabbed his gun and cuffed him.
“You’re both safe now, Mrs. Northam,” Laker said, untying her hands.
She hurried over and pulled Mia into her arms.
“Our agents will take you both to a secure location, ma’am.”
Mrs. Northam nodded, looking stunned. She rocked Mia in her arms until Mia’s sniffling quieted.
Laker leaned close to the cuffed man. ”Guess what, asshole?”
The man said nothing.
“It’s come-to-Allah-time.”
SIXTEEN
Donovan grew more frustrated with each minute in the stuffy FBI conference room. He sat with Agent Manning, Lindee, and Jacob, waiting for word of the white van with three black-suited men and a woman, and “American Transit” on its door.
All reports of vans with the word “Transit” were automatically forwarded to the conference room. So far they’d eliminated thirteen “Transit” labeled white vans.
Manning’s phone rang and he hit the speaker button. “White Chevy van,” the caller said. “Three men wearing black, plus a woman in back. Word Transit on the door.”
“What are the exact words?”
“MASS Transit.”
“Mass?”
“Yes.”
“Who’s inside?”
“Three priests and a nun.”
Everyone smiled and relaxed a bit.
Manning’s phone rang again and he hit speaker.
“White Chevy van near the Adirondacks, heading north on Highway 9. Three men and a woman.”
Donovan hoped this was their best lead from earlier. “Where’s Highway 9 go?”
“Up to Canada.”
“Are Canadian customs alerted?”
“Yes.”
“She can’t enter Canada,” Jacob said. “Her passport’s at home.”
“Good. Does the van have Transit signage or a NASCAR sticker?”
“Too far away to see.”
“Stop and check the van anyway.”
They hung up.
A young female FBI agent hurried into the room. When Donovan saw her face, he prepared himself for bad news.
“What’s up, Ann?” Manning asked her.
She paused like she didn’t want to tell him. “A white Chevy van near the Adirondacks Park. Three men and a woman inside . . .”
She took a deep breath.
“The van ran a stop sign. An oil tanker slammed into it.”
“And . . .?”
“All passengers were pronounced dead at the scene.”
SEVENTEEN
When the blended weapon is ready, how will you test it?”
Nell asked Hasham.
“Follow me.”
He led her to a metal door at the end of the laboratory. He unlocked it and took her inside a large room. LED bulbs flooded the room with brilliant light. She smelled animals, then saw them trapped in cages: monkeys, cats, and farther back some puppies and two big golden labs. The puppies begged for attention and she reached in and petted them.
He led her to the golden labs who hurried over, wagging their tails.
“These two will tell us if your blended formula works tonight. Their weight is sufficient for human extrapolation testing.”
“Please don’t poison them. I promise it will work.”
“You expect me to accept your word? An infidel?”
“Yes.”
“Impossible!”
“But - ”
“We’ll test it on them!” He walked away.
She wanted to test it on him!
“But right now, you’re going for a ride.”
“What? Where?”
“It’s a surprise.”
She grew worried fast. Was it a Tony Soprano one-way ride? It made sense. Hasham now had virtually all her expertise incorporated into the weapon. He could probably finish up the last bit of blending tonight now that he’d seen how she did it. He didn’t really need her any more.
Hasham led her upstairs. She saw Aarif walking toward her with a strip of cloth. He blindfolded her, led her outside, pushed her into the back of the van and sat beside her, engulfing her in his eau de garlic. Hasham and the driver sat in front. They drove at highway speed for about ten minutes then entered what sounded like a town. She heard a church bell and stop and go traffic.
They pulled into a garage, and the door thudded shut. “Stay in the car!” Hasham said to her, as he got out. Aarif stayed beside her.
Beneath her blindfold she saw two men start loading several large heavy metal boxes into a black Suburban. She wondered what was in the boxes?
After the boxes were loaded, Hasham got back in the van and they drove off. But she noticed the Suburban took a different road.
“Now where?” she asked Hasham.
“The cabin. You have work to finish.”
“So why bring me here?”
“You know why.”
She did know why. He feared she’d try to sabotage the weapon if they left her alone. And he was right. But how could she? She couldn’t even get down to the underground laboratory without Hasham’s thumbprint. Or he feared she’d try to escape. Again how?
The windows were nailed shut and covered with thick wire. The doors were double-locked.
Back at the cabin, Hasham returned her to the laboratory.
“Finish by eight!” he said.
“How will I know it’s eight? You took my watch.”
He frowned, walked over to a desk drawer, unlocked it, took out her watch, Jacob’s anniversary gift, and handed it to her. She put the watch on and it felt wonderful, almost like being with Jacob.
As they continued working, her mind kept flashing to the photo of her daughter Mia beside a man with a long curved knife. Mia looked absolutely terrified. And where was Dorothy, her mother-inlaw? Had they hurt her? Had they hurt her in front of Mia? Please no . . .
Nell took a deep breath and exhaled. How did it all come down to this? How did her happy normal life turn into this horrific nightmare?
Jacob had begged her to find safer work. But no – I convinced him, and myself, that I was safe, even though I worked with deadly toxins. And because I brainwashed myself, I’m now in a situation where I’ll very likely lose my life, along with thousands of innocent pe
ople.
She pictured their safe, cozy home near Aberdeen . . . Mia and Jacob playing SpongeBob games on the living room carpet after dinner. Mia and Jacob. Her reasons for surviving.
But will I ever see them again? Highly unlikely. She’d seen Hasham and Aarif’s faces. They’d make sure she never got the chance to identify them.
Mia would grow up without her. Without Jacob. Instead, she’d probably grow up with a sheik who’ll circumcise her and worse.
Or maybe she wouldn’t grow up. Maybe Mia’s acute lymphoblastic leukemia that nearly ended her life three years ago would relapse. The blood cancer could likely relapse without careful monitoring at a top-notch cancer center . . . the kind not likely available in a desert where the sheik likely lived.
Mia’s cancer, untreated, would kill her.
Nell leaned against the lab bench, feeling nauseated and defeated. She hated her choice: save her daughter - or help Hasham kill thousands of innocent people.
Then a solution crept into her mind.
A deadly solution.
EIGHTEEN
Donovan saw his assistant calling in and punched the speaker button.
“What’s up?” Donovan asked.
“We just got an update on that white Chevy van that crashed near the Adirondacks, killing three men and a woman . . .”
The room hushed.
“Everyone was over eighty. Bingo group.”
Sighs of relief flowed across the conference table followed by moments of sympathy for the deceased seniors.
His phone rang again. It was Agent Lonnie Laker calling in.
He punched the speaker button again.
“What’s up Lonnie?”
“Close call at Mrs. Northam’s house.”
Jacob Northam jumped up. “Are my daughter and mom -?”
“ - they’re both fine. But two terrorists who entered her house are not. One’s dead. The other’s in custody.”
“Who are they?” Donovan asked.
“The deceased is Fadoul Khalof. The other guy is Amir Kareem. We’re interrogating Kareem now.”
“Enhance him!” Donovan said. “Find out how and when the attack is coming. And where Nell is!”
“We’re already enhancing him.”
Donovan knew Agent Laker had spent years interrogating terrorists at CIA black sites in the Middle East. His enhanced interrogations had helped prevent explosions in a New York subway, a Brussels mall, an Amsterdam kosher restaurant, and two Catholic churches in Paris. Conservative estimates suggested his interrogations had saved hundreds, maybe thousands of lives.
Donovan had no qualms about using enhanced interrogation of a terrorist who had information about an imminent attack upon innocent people.
Donovan remembered the day years ago when he learned that lesson . . . the day he’d captured an Al Qaeda terrorist who knew where a major bomb would explode in Baghdad within the next five hours. The terrorist refused to talk. Donovan requested permission to use enhanced interrogation. His boss in DC denied permission, citing “serious negative congressional reaction and grave political ramifications.” Donovan cited several innocent deaths and grave injuries if they didn’t enhance him. But permission was denied again. Four hours later, the bomb exploded in a grade school near Baghdad’s Green Zone, killing sixteen children, ages six to eleven, and four teachers. When Donovan returned to DC he tossed the sickening photos of the sixteen bloody mutilated children’s bodies on his boss’s desk, and said “these kids’ deaths are on you!” Then he stormed out.
Donovan never forgave himself for not enhancing the terrorist.
These days, he didn’t ask permission.
* * *
In the cold dark interrogation chamber, Agent Lonnie Laker got in Amir Kareem’s face. Kareem’s boxer shorts were already drenched from two waterboarding sessions. The air conditioning was cranked down to fifty-six and a fan blew icy air onto him.
Kareem was shivering, but not talking. He was obviously trained to tolerate waterboarding, like Sheik Mohammad, the 9-11 planner. Mohammad had endured one hundred eighty waterboarding sessions without talking. What finally made him talk? Seven straight days and nights without sleep. Sleep-deprived brains will talk.
And Sheik Mohammad talked, saving hundreds of lives.
But Lonnie Laker didn’t have seven days and nights. He had hours. Minutes maybe. He needed answers now.
“I want a lawyer.”
“No lawyer! You’re an enemy combatant.”
“I’m a student!”
“With a fake visa!”
Kareem said nothing.
“What are Dr. Northam’s abductors planning? When are they attacking? How? Where?”
Kareem looked away.
“Where is Dr. Northam being held?”
Kareem’s mouth bent in a sneer.
Laker wanted to smash his fist into it. Instead, he nodded to two fellow agents. They tilted Kareem’s chair back so his head was lower than his feet. Blood rushed to his head.
Another agent placed the white towel over his face and began pouring water into the towel, slowly . . . then faster and faster.
Kareem’s body fought the sense of drowning. He tried to twist his head, but the head strap locked it in place. His arms jerked against their leather straps. His carotid arteries bulged fat as computer cables.
Water spilled into his nose and mouth.
They lifted his chair back up.
“Talk Kareem!”
He hacked and sputtered, “I know . . . nothing . . .”
They tilted him back again and poured much more water . . . drenching his face, chest, stomach. His lizard brain screamed that he was drowning, but he was obviously trained to ignore the feeling. He bucked like a wild horse.
Laker hoped the man didn’t pass out. Or worse, stroke out. Kareem had answers they needed now.
But clearly this approach was not working.
Laker stopped the session. Time to crank up the pressure.
“Okay, Kareem. New rules. Listen real close”
Kareem seemed to catch the hardness in his tone.
Laker leaned in inches from Kareem’s eyes. “The new rules are simple. Talk . . . or your ISIS friends will learn the truth about your wife.”
Kareem’s eyes shot open. “What truth?”
“She’s been giving the CIA important information about ISIS and Al Qaeda for a year.”
“That’s a lie!”
“Not if we prove it’s true.”
Kareem looked panicked.
“You know what happens then?”
Kareem said nothing.
“What happens then is that ISIS will grab your wife and two sons. Then sadly, they’ll torture them to find out what she told the CIA. She’ll deny it. But they won’t believe her. And then she and your sons will likely be tortured and killed. You know it. I know it. Do I want to do this? Of course not. But you give me no other choice. Their deaths will be on you, Kareem! On you! Do you understand?”
Kareem looked terrified. “You won’t do this . . .”
“I’ve done it before,” Laker lied. “And I’ll do it again. What’s killing three of yours if you’re killing thousands of ours?”
Kareem stared back, enraged.
“Then finally, Kareem, we’ll set you free and tell ISIS that you told us everything. That you gave us names. Addresses. Then we’ll tell them where to find you.”
Kareem looked panicked.
“You would not do all this.”
“I have and I will,“ he lied again. ”So talk to me.”
Kareem said nothing.
Laker nodded to his agents and said . . . “Niagara Falls!”
The agents dumped three consecutive buckets of ice water over Kareem’s nose and mouth . . . heavy non-stop flowing water. Seconds later, Kareem coughed hard and vomited into a bucket.
“O. . .kay . . . Stop! . . . I . . . talk.” He gasped for breath. “Must . . . rest . . . a minute.”
They sat him upri
ght.
“You’ve got three minutes to rest. Then you talk. If the sensors in this chair detect you’re lying, your wife and family will be running for their lives. It’s all up to you, Kareem. Understand?”
Kareem paused.
“Tafahhum, Kareem?”
Kareem looked surprised that Laker had used the Arabic word for understand.
“Yes. I understand.”
An agent cuffed his hands in front and chained his ankles to the chair. Laker and the others left the room to let Kareem stew over what he’d say.
In an adjoining room, Agent Laker looked through a small window. Kareem sat shivering, dejected, his head in his hands, obviously pondering his fate.
Laker walked over to a desk, sat down and wrote three questions he’d ask Kareem.
When? . . . Where? . . . How?
NINETEEN
Nell Northam and Hasham left the underground laboratory, stepped on the elevator floor and headed back up to the cabin. She watched him dab his left nostril with another fresh linen handkerchief, one of many stored in each room of the cottage.
“Deviated septum?” she asked.
He paused, then nodded.
“I know a surgeon who can fix that.”
“So do I.”
“So why don’t you - ?”
“ - I don’t want it fixed.”
Puzzled by his answer, she asked, “Why not?”
He paused as though considering whether to bother responding.
“I received this injury from the US missile that killed my wife and daughter.”
She paused. “I’m very sorry . . .”
“Too late.”
She said nothing.
“The injury reminds me of their ultimate sacrifice.”
She nodded.
“It also reminds me of my ultimate goal.”
“What’s that?”
“Al-Thar!”
“What’s Al - ?”
“- Revenge! You know, like our successful 9/11 attack!”
The elevator clicked to a stop at the cabin level. They walked into the living room area where she saw Aarif cleaning an assault rifle that looked like the AK-47s she’d seen at Fort Detrick.