Anger flashed across his face. “What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”
I shook my head. “Forget it. I don’t want to get into it with you. Yes, I’d like to see my daughter. I miss her. I don’t expect anything, but I’d like to at least talk to her.”
The anger changed to smugness. “That’s funny. ’Cause a package came for you this afternoon by courier. Leastways, it didn’t have a UPS or FedEx label on it.”
I took a slow, deep breath to push away my uneasiness and hear what he had to say.
He wagged a finger at me. “You’ve been a naughty boy, Zane. What’d you do, rob a bank?”
“You opened it?” My fingers clenched.
He shrugged. “How was I to know? You don’t live here. Now, way I figure it, you must be desperate to be somebody else.”
“What do you want?”
“I’ve been thinking about starting up a business. I’m not much good working for other folks. Let’s say five grand.”
With great effort I managed to stay in my seat, forcing myself to breathe deeply. “Jack, if I hadn’t known what a sleaze ball you are that would have surprised me. But use your head. Even if I had robbed a bank, which I didn’t, I wouldn’t have the cash on me.”
I reached into my pocket and pulled out the remaining wad of money, peeled off four hundreds, and showed him the little I had remaining.
“So, here’s what I propose,” I said. “Out of the kindness of my heart, I won’t come across this table and beat your ass to within an inch of your life. Instead, I’ll give you this four hundred, and if you put together a plan for this business of yours, I’ll think about investing in it when all this is over and I get back home.”
He shook his head. “Guess you won’t be getting your new identity after all. You gotta do better than that. How do I know you’ll come through with more?”
“You’ll have to trust me.”
“Fat chance.” He sat back, left hand extended on the table.
I took another breath and in one motion grabbed his wrist with my right hand and twisted it clockwise while my other hand gripped his throat. Pain and surprise showed on his face, and I twisted his wrist a little more to bring him closer.
“The only time in my life I went back on my word is when I walked out on Rachel’s mother, and I’d do it again. But that’s the only time. Take the four hundred.”
He nodded. I let go of his wrist and shoved him back into his chair. He gasped for air and rubbed his throat. I sat back, and glanced around to see if we’d attracted attention, doing my best to cover up my exhaustion from the effort. The long day and whatever was eating me from inside out continued to take their toll.
“You really are a bastard,” he wheezed.
I stared at him. A buzzing noise startled us both, and he fumbled for the phone in his pocket. He looked at the screen, but didn’t answer. Instead, he used both thumbs on the screen.
I tipped my head toward the phone. “Who’s that? Rachel?”
He continued typing for a moment, and looked at me. He opened his mouth, and his eyes shifted up and right before centering on me. “Yeah, Rachel. She’s home.”
I processed the lie. “Did you tell her I’m here?”
“Nah, man, I think we’re better off surprising her. Then she has to talk to you, even if it’s nothing more than telling you to get your ass out of our house.”
“Watch your manners.” I leaned toward him, nostrils flaring. Instinctively, he pulled back.
Trying to regain some swagger, he stood awkwardly. “You want to go or not?”
Wearily, I got to my feet and followed him out. He’d walked, he said, so we took the van. He directed me up the highway about a quarter of a mile and indicated a right turn at a traffic light. After another quarter-mile or so, he pointed out another right turn onto a side street. Something didn’t feel right. I caught him eyeing me a couple of times as if I was a big, strange dog he wasn’t sure he could trust. He kept rubbing his thigh and swiping his mouth with the back of his sleeve. I slowed as we drove down a block of trailers. He had me jog over a block on a street that ended in a cul-de-sac.
“The one on the end,” he said.
I pulled onto the grass shoulder, headlights catching the rear end of a little Japanese car parked in front of the trailer. I shut off the engine, got out and quickly patted the weapons I carried before meeting Jack on the other side of the van. He preceded me up the walk, climbed the three steps to the door, and opened it, spilling light onto the small landing. The murmur of a television floated through the doorway. Jack stood aside and let me precede him through the door. Alarms went off in my head again as I squeezed past him.
One of the young guys who’d been pumping gas at the service station stood on the far side of the room at the edge of the kitchen. He had a forearm around the throat of my daughter, and pointed a gun at her head. She was dressed in blue scrubs, stained navy in spots by the tears streaming down her face.
“What have you done?” she sobbed with a look that rent my heart with guilt.
I glanced at the television. My face stared back at me, while a news announcer rattled off my alleged crimes.
“I didn’t do any of those things, Rachel,” I said. “Whatever they’re saying, it isn’t true. Well, most of it.”
Jack muscled me aside to get in.
“Ah, you must be Jack,” the gunman said. “Shut the door.”
“What the hell is this?” Jack said. “Look, I brought him here like we agreed. What the fuck are you doing with my wife?
“You brought this, this, into our home?” Rachel cried, pulling on the arm at her neck.
The gunman yanked her closer, tightening his grip. A strangled sound came from her throat.
“That’s enough, man!” Jack shouted, taking a step. “Leave her alone!”
Quickly swinging the barrel toward Jack, the gunman pulled the trigger. The blast was deafening in the small space. Rachel screamed as Jack fell to his knees clutching his left arm. I reached for the pistol on my hip, and the gunman aimed at me. Rachel shrieked again. I put my hands out in front of me.
“Stop!” I barked. “It’s me you want, not her! But you don’t want to shoot me here. Too messy. Cops will be here soon enough after letting loose with that cannon. Whole town must’ve heard that.”
He considered it, and the tension on his face eased somewhat. “Very slowly, take your gun out and set it on the floor.”
I did as he said, using only thumb and two fingers to gingerly lift it out of the holster. Rachel sobbed quietly.
“Rachel, honey, it’s okay,” I said. “It’s all going to be okay.”
“You fucking shot me,” Jack mumbled, taking his hand away for a moment to look at the blood covering his palm and seeping between his fingers.
“Shut up!” the gunman said, his eyes never leaving me as I put the Sig on the floor. “Okay, that’s good. Now the other one.”
I hesitated, but knew a bluff served no point. I got down on one knee, pulled up my pant leg, took the compact Sig out of the ankle holster, and gently laid it on the carpet.
I stood. “Let her go.”
“Kick the gun away first.”
I put my foot out, and nudge the gun toward him with a toe. “I don’t know why you’ve been dogging me, but she’s not part of this.”
His lips turned up in a cruel imitation of a smile. “To make sure you don’t interfere. You were supposed to get arrested, and buy us time, but you cleverly slipped away from the FBI.”
“Us who? Al-Qadir? Is that who you’re talking about?”
His eyes widened in surprise, but he recovered quickly. “So, you figured out that much. I was right to follow you.”
“Daddy?” Rachel’s voice was plaintive, and fear spread across her face. “What’s going on?”
“It’s okay, it’s okay,” I said, using the voice that I had when monsters in the closet had frightened her at six. I focused on the gunman again. “What’s your name, a
nyway?”
He shrugged. “Amir. Not that it means anything to an infidel dog like you.”
“Let her go, Amir. I’m the one you want.”
“I could take you both,” he said, musing. He shook his head. “Like we did your grandson.”
“Where is he?” I demanded.
“Quite safe.” He smiled, enjoying my pain. “He’s in my father’s care.”
Fatigue would have rolled me under hours earlier except for the other emotion that had nearly caused my coffee to spill a little while before—anger. Almost the entire drive from Canton, Dinky’s death had slipped in and out of my thoughts. Like me, he’d survived when so many had not. And my anger had grown the whole way. Now it burned fiercely.
“You better hurry,” I said. “Cops are on their way by now.”
He cocked his head, and spun Rachel away. She stumbled and fell on Jack as I took two steps toward Amir. He anticipated me and met me halfway, backhanding me with the pistol. I threw up an arm just in time to keep it from smashing my cheekbone, but the barrel raked across my scalp, setting off fireworks inside my head and bringing tears to my eyes. By the time I swiped them and faced him, he had his gun aimed at my chest.
He waggled it toward the door. “Like you said, we better hurry.” He motioned for me to take the lead.
I nodded and turned, head bowed. I had one shot at this. If he got me into his car, he’d make me drive up into the Virginia hills, shoot me, and bury my body in some remote spot. He’d been clever enough to follow me all the way from Ypsilanti. Clever enough to bug the car I drove and get to Dinky’s ahead of me. But he didn’t know shit about me. If he had, he would have searched me. I still had the fighting knife I’d used in the tunnels. Some guys liked the KA-BAR, some the Recon, and a few even used knuckle knives. I’d used a stiletto—two-sided blade, thin and maneuverable. I’d strapped it to my forearm under my windbreaker.
He had youth and strength on his side. I had several inches on him, some old combat experience, and at that moment a serious incentive to live a while longer—my grandson. As I pushed the door open with a shoulder, I slid my hand up the unbuttoned sleeve of the windbreaker and grasped the handle of the stiletto.
One chance.
I slowed on the small landing, stumbling. He crowded onto the porch behind me as I’d hoped, making the mistake of getting too close. Instead of moving down the stairs, I stepped back and pivoted, swinging my left arm up and out to block his gun arm. I brought my knife hand around from down low, driving the point of the stiletto up toward his gut. I saw the fear reflected in his eyes, the hatred. I felt the same emotion roiling my insides, burning through my veins. We shared a weird sort of intimacy in that moment, an understanding, a mutual loathing. The gun went off, the muzzle flash a bright, searing tongue of flame that licked the side of my face. I heard screaming, and felt something warm and wet slicking my hand. Amir bent forward as if trying to hear me better. When his ear came close to my mouth, I growled in it.
“Don’t mess with my family, motherfucker.”
56
The burner in al-Qadir’s pocket rang. He took it out and looked at the display. Finally.
“Yes?” he answered impatiently.
“They’ve changed plans,” a woman said, the stress in her voice taking it nearly to breaking. “They’re moving him tomorrow.”
“That wasn’t unexpected. They want to keep us off balance.” He laughed. “As if they knew we exist. I anticipated this. Tell me.”
The woman relayed what she knew—route, timing, vehicles, number of personnel involved, likely weaponry. Al-Qadir nodded as she spoke, half-anticipating everything she had to say. Still, he moved to the desk in the suite and took meticulous notes on the hotel’s cream-colored stationery.
“Excellent,” he said when she finished. “Tell the others. The timing must be impeccable. They must coordinate with the mission here.”
“I know how important it is,” she said. “They all have atomic watches, so they’ll be synchronized with your timetable.”
He chalked up her impertinence to nerves. “Good. Stay close. I don’t trust them, and neither should you. It’s very possible that they’ll make a last-minute change or adjustment to the plan.”
“I’ll keep my ears open.”
“They still don’t suspect?”
“I… I don’t know. I don’t think so. Hard to tell.”
“Your part is almost finished. Don’t worry. Your cousin will soon be free.”
“I suppose.”
“What’s wrong?”
“You can’t know that. There’s too much that could go wrong.”
He heard the desperation in her voice. “I’ve planned for every contingency. Nothing will go wrong, insha’Allah. It’s almost over. You have to be strong.”
“Yes,” she said, calmer now. “Yes, of course.”
“Good.”
He disconnected and took a deep breath. The change accelerated the timetable significantly, but he felt confident that he’d prepared sufficiently that all was ready. He booted up his laptop, and opened a different fictitious e-mail account than the one he used to communicate with Amir. Consulting his notes one last time, he typed brief, succinct instructions, and filed the document in the draft folder, following protocol. After closing the program, he started an auto-dialer program. Using the VPN, he instructed the auto-dialer to text all the numbers in a specific directory with a single character—7.
After shutting down the computer, he felt the need for some fresh air before going to dinner. A stroll through Lafayette Park across the street would do him good, and given the new schedule he might not have another chance for a while. He locked up the suite and took the elevator down to the ground floor.
The old, elegant lobby buzzed with activity as new arrivals checked in, and D.C.’s power brokers and beautiful people arrived for drinks or dinner in one of the hotel’s venues. His gaze missed nothing as he crossed the carpeted floor. His stride faltered at the sight of a man standing at the reception desk, and he searched his memory banks to determine why he felt convinced he recognized the man. Senses on alert, he scanned for other signs of danger, but saw nothing out of the ordinary. And then he had it—Richard Swopes, the number-two man at the CIA.
Without pausing, al-Qadir changed direction, turning his back on Swopes. The spy chief could be in the hotel for all sorts of reasons, but al-Qadir couldn’t risk it. And the fact that Swopes was at the registration desk seemed odd, as if he was inquiring about a guest. As quickly as he could, al-Qadir got on an elevator. As he rode back up to his floor, he called Fayad, the man who’d been using the name Samara, and told him to have someone bring a car around to the service entrance to the hotel.
When he opened the door to his suite, the blinking red light on the phone confirmed his fears. No one else would call him here except perhaps Abigail Cartwright, and he doubted she had anything to tell him yet. Swopes, if it was he who had left the message, wouldn’t stop there. He’d come up to the suite personally just to double-check. Al-Qadir quickly grabbed his laptop and the two duffel bags containing the weapons. Leaving everything else behind, he walked out and hurried for the stairwell.
As he closed the stairwell door softly and turned to head down, he heard the ding of an arriving elevator car.
57
Janice had been so unnerved by the call from the CIA deputy director that at first she didn’t know what she should do. And she only had the caller’s word that he was who he said he was. If not, however, why charge her with stopping whatever was about to happen? No, she believed the call was genuine, and that for whatever reason, Swopes had given her marching orders.
She hurried back to her office and quickly reviewed the information that had sent her down this path of reasoning. None of the pieces by themselves would convince even a new recruit at Quantico of an imminent attack. But taken together, the threat was very credible. She started assembling the material, her reticence long since forgotten as her
analytical and organizational skills took over. This was work at which she excelled, and she found herself humming contentedly if somewhat nervously.
When she finished cutting and pasting the documents and sourcing her material, she reviewed it one more time. It made compelling reading. She wrote a short e-mail to Carol, her counterpart over at the FBI, asking her to call after she’d had a chance to go over the brief. Then Janice prepared herself to make her argument to Douglas. But something nagged at her.
She could make a case that each recent incidence of a raised threat level corresponded with a member of al Qaeda or some other terrorist group incarcerated nearby. She could make the argument that each “target” represented only a diversion from the real intent of freeing some of society’s worst felons. That they were willing to attack at venues such as the Mall of America, kill hundreds and sacrifice their own to draw attention and responders away from the jailbreaks was horrifying. If the plot succeeded, it would be like the Paris attacks times ten. Times twenty. Who knew how many real targets they had? The logistics of hitting them all at once were staggering.
But here in Detroit she had the opposite situation—a plot to free a terrorist, but no diversion target. There was no buzz here about any public venue being in danger of attack.
She went over everything she had one more time. When nothing popped out at her, she ran a search of her regular sources to see if she’d missed anything in the past several days. The search words she entered turned up no results. She expanded the search to the past several weeks, and added a couple of parameters. Still nothing.
She pushed her chair away from the desk and let the thoughts tumble through her head, visualizing them as if reading snippets of information on her computer, hoping to make the kind of intuitive connections she made during her analyses. She closed her eyes and let the tension drain from her shoulders and neck, settling deeper in her chair. She couldn’t explain how the technique worked for her. She only knew that it did, if she let it. She fell deeper into the trance, words and images whirling in her mind. They became more dreamlike as she bordered on sleep. And suddenly an answer appeared.
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