Twist and Turn

by Tim Tigner

  She didn’t take his advice.

  She sat cross-legged with her back to the opening and listened. Over the peeping chicks and blowing fans, she heard a bit of Arabic banter followed by car doors opening and closing. Seconds later, the mighty engine roared to life and two of her captors departed.

  Katya waited patiently for a few minutes to be sure the remaining terrorist didn’t plan to join her, then she pulled the golden object from her bra.

  Although sized like a large coin, it clearly wasn’t. Oz’s good luck charm resembled a flower with alternating gold and white leaves. Real gold and porcelain, she believed. The intricate seven-sided design also had accents of translucent emerald green. Crystal, she supposed. In the center, surrounded by a ring, was Arabic text. She couldn’t read it, of course. To her, it looked like so many squiggles. But surely it was a pithy phrase. Words of wisdom, praise, or a Koran verse.

  While the back was flat and plain, except for what appeared to be a serial number, the front was textured. Her first thought was a brooch, perhaps for a queen or other office holder. Then she discovered irregularities on the edge of one of the petals and changed her mind. They were something she recognized from her own jewelry. The remnants of a broken off attachment ring. But not for a pendant. She was holding a medal.

  Had Oz been preemptively awarded some great honor in anticipation of completing his current assignment? That might make sense if it was a suicide mission. The thought chilled her until she realized it made no sense. If the medal was a recent award, the clip wouldn’t be broken.

  It had to be something historical. Something deeply meaningful to Oz—or his family. Perhaps it had belonged to his father or grandfather. A symbol of glory days now past. Or perhaps, days he hoped to recapture.

  That felt right.

  Katya returned the medal to her bra with a sense of accomplishment. Despite being chained to a wall and strapped with explosive, she’d scored both a physical and a mental victory.

  With that thought, she decided to attempt sleep. Whatever was coming, she wanted to confront it at her best.

  An odd rumble roused her some time later. She wasn’t sure how long. Minutes? Hours? Naps could be difficult to judge, particularly those fueled by extreme stress and exhaustion.

  As she shook off the shroud of sleep, her ears identified the sound. A truck had rumbled past the barn. She heard the big door slide aside, then the shrill beeping of a backup warning. The truck maneuvered inside, followed by the Charger.

  Katya heard doors opening and closing, and the scrunch of approaching footsteps. She rose to face the person ducking into her cell.

  It was Sabrina. The evil sister was holding two objects. One was a handgun, the other a set of headphones.

  80

  Just One

  Florida

  THERE ARE only a few civilian uses for detonators, the biggies being building demolition and rock quarrying. As a result, there are only two detonator suppliers in east central Florida. Just enough to keep each other honest. One appeared to be both a manufacturer and a supplier of demolition products, the other was a specialty supply company servicing construction contractors.

  I drove to the closest, which was an hour up the coast in Titusville. Barnes and Baker Demolition Supply sat on cheap land near the intersection of 528, the Beachline Expressway, and I-95. Bold blue lettering on the fading white warehouse made it easy to spot. It looked like the founders had begun their manufacturing and warehousing in a big older building, then bumped out a storefront adjacent to the parking lot once they moved into retail.

  I counted four well-used utility vehicles, all off to the far side. Looked like I’d be the only customer. That suited me just fine.

  The storefront that greeted me consisted of a long counter with a cash register at one end, a computer at the other, and a ring-for-service doorbell on the wall. No product posters or displays. Just a few legal notices. Apparently, if you came to B&BDS, you knew what you wanted.

  I rang the bell.

  A good sixty seconds later, a man emerged rubbing a shop rag between his hands. His scalp was bald, his eyes blue, and his welcoming smile peeked through a casually kept gray mustache and beard. He looked a bit surprised to see me. “Help you?”

  I held out my hand. “I’m Kyle.”

  He put the towel on the counter. “Barry. What can I do you for?”

  Based on name alliteration, his age and the intelligence in his eyes, I sized Barry up as a founding co-owner of B&BDS and decided he’d appreciate a direct approach. “I consult with the FBI. Have a few questions if you can spare a second?”

  His smile disappeared. His lips said, “Sure,” but his tone said maybe.

  I stuck with direct. “Have you recently sold any blasting caps or other detonating equipment to a person who appeared Middle Eastern? May have spoken with a British accent?”

  “Is this a joke?”

  “No, Barry. It most certainly isn’t.”

  “That happens, we’re going to let ATF know. I mean, there’s racial profiling and then there’s common sense, you know?”

  “Even if the person has a permit?”

  “Permits are required, but are easy enough to fake.”

  “What do they look like?”

  Barry pointed to one of the certificates on the wall. It looked like a Federal Firearms License or auto registration, a half-sheet printout in black and white. “Title 18 of the United States Code, Chapter 40,” he said, reciting the wording along the top.

  “Do you make a record of each purchase?”

  “Got to. That’s Title 27, Part 555.”

  “Good to hear. Have you sold any detonators lately?”

  “Plenty. But only to regular customers. There are storage regulations, so users tend to buy them as needed.”

  “So no unusual orders? Walk-ins that surprised you?”

  “What’s this about?”

  I pulled out my phone and called up a photo of Katya. No easier way to lighten a conversation between men than to interject a pretty woman. “Have you seen her?”

  Barry took my phone and studied the image attentively, using zoom. “No. I’d remember her. That’s for sure. She’s about the 180-degree opposite of our usual customer.”

  “Would you call ATF if she came in looking for detonators?”

  Barry’s expression changed. He got it. “No, I wouldn’t.”

  I pulled five crisp twenty-dollar bills from my wallet and laid them on the counter in a fan. Then I picked a business card off the counter, flipped it over and began to write my phone number with a borrowed pen. I had to stop and check the number in the burner app, as I’d gone through so many in my calls with Vic. “Do me a favor and call this number immediately if either she or a Middle Easterner comes in. While they’re still at the counter. All you have to say is ‘Please hold,’ and I’ll know.” I put the card on the lip of the register. “Will you do that for me, Barry?”

  “Sure. Why don’t you email me that picture for reference.” He handed me a fresh business card. “Address is right there.”

  I headed south on I-95, past Melbourne toward the Treasure Coast and Rebound Construction Supply. According to their website, they offered everything required to get wind and water-damaged commercial and residential property ready for reconstruction, including demolishing unstable structures.

  I wasn’t sure whether it was good news or bad that Oz hadn’t been to Barry’s store. On the one hand, it left me with only one more good chance of confirming my hypothesis and getting back on track to finding Katya. On the other hand, it meant there was a chance of catching Oz in the act.

  If Barry called.

  And I was close by.

  I spent the drive south thinking about exploding produce. Terrorists would go with one of two tactics. Either get the eggs and potatoes widely distributed, aiming for hundreds of individual explosions, or use them as a single stealth bomb.

  The trick with the individual scenario would be timing. How w
ould you time the individual explosions? You’d want them to go off all at once and with people nearby. That seemed a tough nut to crack. If it were, say, candy specially labeled for a movie premiere, that might work. But eggs and potatoes were everyday items.

  The stealth bomb scenario would be much simpler. But you’d want something high profile. Something akin to what The World Trade Center had been for New York City. It was a symbol. It was an economic engine. And by involving aircraft, it touched every affluent American’s life.

  I started thinking about prime targets. Economic engines that attracted large crowds. Preferably affluent but diverse ones. By the time I neared my destination, I’d moved on from fixed places to major cultural events, things like championship ball games, celebrated music concerts, and presidential state dinners. Any one of them might make a good target—although major league sports and arena concerts didn’t typically have eggs on the menu.

  I needed to spend some time on Google, and resolved to do that next. If I didn’t get lucky at the second store.

  Rebound Construction Supply looked only slightly busier than B&BDS. There was just one car in the customer part of the lot. A black Dodge Charger.

  81

  Transformations

  Florida

  KATYA JOLTED AWAKE beneath a barrage of cool water. It wasn’t from a glass or even a bucket. She was being sprayed. Her first thought was of the belt. Would the water short circuit it? Was it about to explode. She looked down and saw the diode blinking red.

  Behind her a woman spoke. “Time to wash up.”

  It was Shakira, holding a hose.

  “Don’t look at me. Wash up,” Shakira said, directing the spray full on her face. “There’s soap and shampoo in the pail.”

  Katya looked and saw there was indeed one of those bare metal pails beside her on the corncob and crap floor. She was still in her corner of the chicken barn, but the glance back had shown that something had changed. The boxes that fenced her in had been removed.

  Katya stood.

  The spray moved with her.

  Since there was soap, Katya assumed she was to strip. She immediately thought of the stolen medal hidden in her now-soaked bra. Could she move it to a new natural hiding place with Shakira standing right behind her?

  She’d have to try. The movements would appear innocent enough, given that she was washing.

  Hopefully, clean clothes and a towel would be forthcoming. And a change of venue. The floor was becoming nasty as it got wet.

  Despite the rude awakening and crude circumstances, Katya welcomed the opportunity to wash. It had been days, many of them sweaty, since the last time her skin had seen soap. She’d spent every intervening second confined to a car trunk or a barnyard floor. At this point, her scent would probably curl wallpaper and her hug leave a permanent stain. Katya didn’t expect her next stop to be a pleasant one, but at least she’d face it clean. Positive attitude, Katya. Positive attitude.

  Each time she turned to wash her front side, Shakira focused the flow on her eyes. Message delivered. Katya began directing the water with her hands. The conditioning shampoo took forever to rinse, but she’d have used it twice if Shakira hadn’t turned off the hose.

  As Katya squeezed out her hair, a towel landed on her shoulder. She dried off, then wrapped herself with it, soggy belt and all, but didn’t turn around.

  While attempting to fall asleep some hours back, Katya figured out why Omar glued the belt in place. It wasn’t to prevent her from taking it off. The booby trap and stitching took care of that. It was to prevent her from rotating it around. From placing the bomb in front—and giving her captor a hug.

  Shakira placed a big tooth comb in her hand.

  Katya went to work battling the tangled mess. Usually, she’d be seated before her vanity on a cushioned stool. She’d have spa music playing or perhaps some Spanish guitar. This would be a meditative, relaxing chore. Today she felt like she was preparing for her own hanging.

  When she finished, Katya just stood there holding the comb down at her side, staring at the curved slope of the corrugated steel wall, listening to fifty thousand chickens. Each of them was destined to be eaten. Did she make it fifty thousand and one?

  She sensed movement behind her, then felt the headphones slip over her ears.

  ~ ~ ~

  When Katya awoke, she was no longer wearing the towel. She wasn’t at the farm or in the trunk of a car. She was in the back seat of the Charger, beside Sabrina.

  Katya could feel the explosive belt around her waist, but she couldn’t see the glow of its light. A momentary surge of hope flooded her veins, but a quick inspection revealed that the diode had been duct taped over.

  The shirt she now wore was a gray polo. Not at all her style. A green logo on the breast read Clean Cut Quarries. Interesting. Beneath the shirt she saw blue jeans and buckskin work boots.

  The thought of someone dressing her unconscious body gave Katya an odd, uncomfortable feeling. It made her cringe until she remembered Oz’s medal, and where she’d hidden it. Her deception remained undetected. Her little victory was intact.

  “You’re going to be making a purchase for Kurt Valenta at Clean Cut Quarries,” Sabrina said, handing Katya two pieces of paper and a stack of twenty-dollar bills. “You’re his new assistant, just relocated from California. You’re to give the impression that you and Kurt are close.”

  Sabrina, dressed in flattering white shorts and a tight cleavage-exposing shirt, went on to describe Kurt. Then she explained what Katya was to buy and where it was located. The first half-sheet of paper made note of this. She was to charge the blasting caps to the company account or pay cash and get a receipt. The second half-sheet of paper was a copy of Clean Cut’s purchase permit. It was essentially her identification. Katya got the impression that Sabrina herself had gotten close to Kurt.

  The two former friends role-played while Oz drove them south. Sabrina acted the part of an experienced store clerk, Katya that of a friendly buyer.

  They were, indeed, in Florida. The highway signs declared as much. When one of them announced an upcoming rest stop, it gave Katya an idea. “I really need to use the bathroom.”

  Sabrina said nothing.

  Oz said, “We’ll stop. It will be a good practice run.”

  Katya wasn’t sure what he meant, but was glad for the response.

  Oz parked at the picnic end of the rest stop, fifty yards beyond the building, where there were no other cars.

  Sabrina pulled a phone from her purse and initiated a video call with Oz. Then she switched her input to transmit from the main camera. “Put this in the front left pocket of your jeans. We’ve sewn it to hold the camera in the proper position. We can see what you see. Hear what you hear. Hear what you say. Do anything stupid or suspicious, and Oz will blow the belt. Block the camera, and Oz will blow the belt. Get the picture?”

  “I get it.”

  “You’re replaceable,” Oz added.

  “I get it,” Katya said. She definitely did.

  82

  Mixed Messages

  Florida

  BLACK DODGE CHARGERS are common enough cars, and this one had a Florida plate. It also had darkly tinted windows, which I didn’t remember seeing back at the bunker. Nonetheless, my pulse rate rocketed. You expect to see pickups at construction supply stores, not sports cars.

  And neither discrepancy was disqualifying. In fact, if thinking about it, I’d have anticipated both.

  I parked at the back of the lot, putting the Charger between me and the main door. I struggled to see if the car was occupied, but between the tinting and the lighting it was impossible to tell without walking up and putting my face to the glass.

  The left end of the store had a portico positioned above barn-sized doors for loading pickups in the rain. The main entrance was a sliding glass door on the right. Given their sun-eschewing reflective coatings, I couldn’t see inside them either.

  I glanced around to be sure I hadn’t b
ecome so focused on the car as to miss something critical. Nothing caught my eye.

  It was easy to imagine trucks lining the drive in the days and weeks following a hurricane, but at the moment Rebound Construction Supply looked like a Christmas store in July. Perhaps the midday hour had something to do with it. In my experience, such stores were busiest in the early and late hours, as crews drove to and from worksites.

  So what now? If I got out of the car, I exposed myself— and potentially lost the element of surprise. But staying there was suspicious as well. If Katya was inside, and someone was waiting in the car, they’d be nervously watching anyone entering the lot. Plus sitting there would delay my reaction if Katya were to walk out. And it wasn’t like I could call the cops.

  I slipped the Glock into the small of my back and slowly stepped out of the car. My sunglasses were a decent disguise, given that a steady flow of casually-clothed guys was expected, and I was not.

  I started walking toward the entrance with my face looking down at my phone but my eyes focused on the familiar Dodge. This could be it. Right here, right now.

  Scenarios played out in my mind. I pictured the doors sliding open and Katya walking out with a box of blasting caps in her hands. Sabrina would be right behind her, hand in purse, finger on trigger. A smiling but silent companion. Katya would spot me, but I’d ignore her. I’d keep walking as casual as could be, then I’d swat the purse and slam Sabrina to the ground. Oz would walk out a few seconds later, having pretended to be an unassociated party. I’d shoot him on the spot. Except, it wouldn’t go like that. Because of the reflecting door glass, he’d see me before I saw him. Then what? Would he open fire through the door? No chance of that. He’d run to the cargo-loading exit and try to flank me. I’d have to get Katya and Sabrina out of sight before he could. Would I have time?