Twenty-four Days (Rowe-Delamagente series Book 2)

by Jacqui Murray

  He approached the door, making a point of comparing the address against his clipboard, and knocked efficiently. No response so he peered in the window while attaching a dime-sized cam to the front sill and then trotted to the backyard as though to check the meter. Once in the relative privacy of the fenced rear, he planted cams and mics on windows, in trees, over bushes, and under the eaves. When he returned to his car, he activated the surveillance and waited.

  Two hours later, he pulled out a sack lunch, wolfed it down, and then poked around inside the bag, hoping he'd missed something. Sitting made him hungry and hungry made him irritable. He focused his hindbrain on surveilling and let his intel brain lose to play. The more he got into this case, the more convinced he was Salah Mahmud al-Zahrawi, the international terrorist whose goal was to destroy America, lived. Kali had stopped him last year. For that, al-Zahrawi hated her.

  The last time Rowe and al-Zahrawi faced off, the terrorist had out-thought him every step of the way except the last where Rowe had the distinct pleasure of watching him die.

  No, he corrected, he blew the man’s chopper out of the sky. He corrected again—he saw a puff of smoke he took to be the helo exploding.

  That meant the most brilliant criminal Rowe had ever faced could be alive. Nothing else made sense. Neither the youngster Ankour Mohammed nor his mentor, Nasr Al-alah, seemed smart enough to hijack two submarines, but al-Zahrawi was, not to mention he had the worldwide network to carry it off. When Rowe reframed everything with al-Zahrawi in the driver’s seat, it all popped into place.

  While Rowe waited for James to come to the phone, a dachshund raced into the street, tail wagging, feet flying, ears flapping in joyous abandon. Rowe flashed on Survivor and his damned positive outlook even as his world collapsed around him. A barefoot matron in an apron chased after the dachshund, raw hamburger patty in one hand, yelling, "Babe! Get back here!" Rowe tried not to chuckle at another unfortunate victim of the pig movie's popularity.

  The dog pulled to a halt, legs wide under his squat body, and then sprinted toward the woman. She slipped a collar around Babe’s neck while he chomped through a hamburger.

  “Zeke, what d’you have?”

  He told James his suspicions. The agent grunted his disbelief, but listened because it came from Rowe.

  By now, the matron was dragging Babe back to the house, hissing and shaking her finger while Babe’s tail wagged furiously. He veered toward Rowe, but his owner yanked him so cruelly, he yipped in pain, making Rowe wince.

  "By the way, CIA got pictures of the missile. It looks to everyone who would know like the delivery system for a nuclear warhead. The problem is the President insists a cruiser can stop it, despite the danger Virginia poses. Guys got his head up his sand.”

  Rowe clenched his teeth rather than point out James had butchered the ostrich metaphor. Instead, he switched topics. "Kali needs more protection than someone walking her home," and he explained his worries about al-Zahrawi.

  "Offered and refused. You want me to tell her your suspicion?"

  "No. Let’s wait until we're sure."

  "Anything going on there?"

  "Just staring at an empty house.”

  He let his mind go blank, ideas floating anywhere. One drifted to the top, North Korea and Iran. He called James again.

  "Maybe this is a quid pro quo, North Korea and Iran helping each other."

  "I got something on that. North Korea will use the Taepodong-2 expendable carrier rocket to launch the Kwangmyongsong-2 communications satellite. The size, clustered engines, and dimensions are nearly the same as the Iranian Unha-2. Pretty expensive for a country that can’t feed its citizenry.”

  "Madmen controlling outer space and the seas is not the world I want to live in.”

  Rowe disconnected and squirmed, but could find no comfortable position after four hours in a car. When the postman dropped off the mail, Rowe jumped out, clipboard in hand. He knocked, wrote a note, and pretended to slip it into the mailbox while he peeked at the name on an envelope. Nasr Al-alah. Bingo.

  He called James on his way back to his car. “Get a warrant.”

  “Not with what you have, Zeke. We need visual or oral confirmation.”

  At 5:05, a middle-aged man with glasses and a neatly trimmed goatee drove in. When he got out of the car, Rowe saw a body type that fit Al-alah—average height, slender frame, salt-and-pepper hair cropped short. He wore a rumpled suit and despite the heat, skin-tight gloves. Rowe snapped his picture as he approached the front door and ran it through facial recognition.

  The man Rowe assumed to be Nasr Al-alah tossed his briefcase on a couch and got a glass of water. The gloves remained on. Skin problem? Rowe's laptop beeped. Facial recognition was inconclusive. Rowe would need a voice match or fingerprints. Since Al-alah kept his gloves on, Rowe would have to wait for the spycams to pick up his voice.

  The man listened to phone messages—one made him smile—and then disappeared into the back. Five minutes later, he was barefoot wearing the traditional salwar kameez of Islamic men—a long, cotton tunic over loose-fitting trousers that stopped above the ankles—and a kufi, the Islamic skull cap. He turned on a tinny radio, heated something in the microwave, and worked at his computer while he ate. Rowe checked the camera opposite the office window, but the monitor blocked the man's face.

  When Al-alah’s cell rang, he walked outside and stood right next to one of Rowe’s microphones.

  "Gotcha." Rowe emailed the .mp3 to Kali with a note, "Is this your caller?" then called James. “He’s our guy. I’ll wait here for the warrant.”

  Al-alah finished his call and went inside. Five minutes later, he left in street clothes, gloves still on, briefcase in hand, a look on his face equal measures fury and fear. He jumped into his car and drove off, Rowe two car lengths behind.

  He called James. “Al-alah got a phone call and left in a hurry. I need that warrant.”

  “I’m getting it fast as I can.”

  Rowe took a left onto Gordon. “I have a flight to San Diego in an hour. Have your guys pick up the tail until you get paperwork.”

  James’ agent had just taken over the chase when Kali called.

  "Zeke! Sean's hurt! I have to go—oh, Zeke!" and her phone shut off.

  In a blink, Rowe was back to the tiny Parisian apartment he shared a lifetime ago with his fiancée, Paulette. He’d begun the teaching career he’d dreamt of since grade school and the woman he didn’t deserve had agreed to marry him. When rioting closed the University for only the second time since 1229, Rowe sided with the idealism of the angry students, believing compromise held the key to peaceful coexistence. They were walking home from class, comparing the marches around them to other historic socialist boycotts. He nodded to a band of tough looking students, telling them to keep up the good fight, when two of them grabbed his arms, easily immobilizing him, while three others attacked Paulette. When Rowe tried to help Paulette, someone hit him with a brick and everything went black. When he came to, Paulette lay dead in a bloody heap.

  Fifty-eight minutes after Kali's phone call, Rowe crashed through her front door, breathing heavily from a three-block sprint on hobbled knees. Kali's face was tear-stained, but with a hardness that broke his heart. He reached to hug her, but she brushed him away.

  "I’m fine, Zeke, but Sean's in a hospital."

  She wasn’t fine. Her face looked ashen, eyes glassy, and one arm trembled as she moved from dresser to closet to kitchen and back. Otto tried to follow, but tipped over, flailing his chubby arms. Rowe righted the bot, patted his metal head and received a muted churble in thanks.

  "Eitan got a notification from Sean's online storage. It included a link to a video showing someone trashing Sean’s apartment." She choked back a sob as she threw clothes into a duffel bag. "Th-the police went to check—the manager called in a robbery.” Rowe trailed her into the bathroom where she tossed toothpaste, floss, shampoo, and anything close by into a make-up case. "They f-found Sean on the floo
r." She printed her boarding pass.

  "I'll drive, Kali. I'm going anyway."

  Kali shook her head as Eitan arrived, hair wet from a shower, dressed in newly-pressed dark pants, a starched flowered shirt and a navy blazer. Only sandals over white socks gave him away. He carried a ticket in one hand, a carry-on bag in the other and his laptop across his back. Around his neck were sunglasses, three flash drives, and a variety of digital jewelry Rowe didn't recognize. He looked pale.

  "You hate flying, Eitan," from Kali. "I'll be OK."

  "This is my fault. I taught Sean how to surveil his surroundings—"

  "It’s my fault. Haster must have let it slip Otto found the sub." Her eyes glistened as she tried to close her suitcase. Rowe gently nudged her away and latched it. "The voice print, Zeke—he called last night.”

  Rowe turned to Eitan. “Nasr Al-alah, Mohammed’s handler. Bobby’s going to pick him up." He turned to Kali, “I’m coming with you.”

  "Mohammed’s on his way here, Zeke” and Eitan explained how he tracked Mohammed after the Tiger Cruise. “Kali's safer in California than New York.”

  A car honked.

  "It’s my taxi. Mr. Winters will take Sandy. Would you get Otto back to Columbia?" And she left, heels clicking on the sidewalk, not waiting for a response. Eitan scuttled after her.

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Day Eleven, Thursday, August 17th, evening

  New York, New York, Kali’s apartment

  Rowe stood, silent and unmoving, as the taxi faded into the distance. Sandy nuzzled his leg. Otto whirred in slow methodical circles in front of him. Soon, the clicking and chirring of insects replaced the birdsong. The shadows deepened into blue and purple and the ragged silhouette of the city darkened against the early evening sky.

  Rowe forgot some of the lessons from military life, but not how to slow the world down when everything happened at once. If a SEAL’s position took a grenade, he covered his buddies and attacked. Having time to think was a luxury. Knowing how to act saved lives.

  The time had arrived to act.

  He stooped over Sandy. "Nothing to worry about, boy. I know you like order to your days, the sureness your master runs your world. We’ll fix things. First, let’s go for a walk."

  Sandy trotted gravely at Rowe’s side, never stopping to play, romp with other dogs, or investigate the intriguing odors floating from the urban greenbelt, but by the time they got home, his tail was wagging.

  Next, Rowe knocked on Mr. Winters’s back door. "Hello, Gunny."

  "Hey, Zeke." He banged out the door wrapped in a bathrobe and wearing Ugg boots despite the heat. “Haven't seen you in a while.”

  "Kali's going to see Sean in California. She said you’ll babysit Sandy while she's gone. If it takes too long, I'd be happy to share responsibilities."

  "Could never be too long with my buddy here." He ruffed the thick fur on Sandy's neck.

  "Is your hip OK?"

  "Oh, sure. Never better. Sorry I missed the contest, but Kali gave me a C-D of it."

  It took a moment for Rowe to realize Mr. Winters was staring at him. "What did I miss?"

  "I hoped things would be better, what with Sean in college, Kali getting her PhD. Guess it's like the Marines, normal is SNAFU. You know what I mean.”

  Situation Normal. All Fucked Up. Rowe couldn’t help but smile. "I think these guys are as dangerous as the ones you never met last year. May even be the same."

  Mr. Winters led Sandy into his unit. "No one picks a fight with an old man because we'll just kill him."

  Rowe loaded Otto into his car, drove to Columbia and then trundled to Kali's office. He dropped his briefcase on the floor, canceled his San Diego flight, and then slumped behind Cat's desk. He expected the terrorists to go after Kali, but not Sean. Was Mohammed jealous of Sean—a love triangle with Chacone? Rowe had trouble thinking of Sean in those terms, but he needed to consider it.

  Something bumped his leg. He looked down into Otto's upturned face. His eyes glittered, but less than usual. Odd.

  "Zeke." His voice dragged. Could Otto stutter? "Kali forgot to recharge me. My battery is down to 5%." His head flagged. "I'm having difficulty… focusing. Would you… plug me in?"

  "Uh," Rowe felt around Otto’s head, neck, and trunk and found a port on the rear panel. "Where's the cord?"

  "Cord... cord... Otto stammered and took halting steps toward Kali's desk. "My battery is down to 4%. My files show she … puts it … in her desk drawer."

  Otto’s head bounced off his chest. Rowe found the cord and connected Otto to the wall outlet. The bot perked up instantly.

  "That is much better. Thank you, Zeke."

  "Why were you at Kali’s house, Otto?"

  “I wanted to see what she called a home so I understand the difference from an office. Did I do something wrong?" The AI clung to Rowe’s side, arms wrapped around Rowe’s legs, his glowing eyes innocent, trusting. Rowe explained as much as he understood, though it felt odd comforting a robot.

  Otto rolled back and forth as though he wanted to say something.

  "What’s on your mind?"

  "Your briefcase holds a data device with an infrared port. I peeked."

  "I collected data on the man responsible for Kali’s problems."

  "Do you mind?" Rowe nodded and then data flew, stopping at an image of Al-alah sitting at his computer.

  "You have quite a bit of information here. I can see everything he's reading as a reflection off his glasses. When his eyes are on the monitor, I can read his emails and documents. When he looks at his hands, I get keystrokes."

  Rowe zoomed in on Al-alah’s glasses. There, as Otto said, was a warped image of the terrorist’s computer. "The image is too bent, Otto. And blurry."

  "The bend is from the lens of the glasses and the blur is from the eyeball's movement. They're both predictable so I can adapt for them. May I?"

  Rowe sat back and put his hands behind his head. "Why not."

  "Hmmm. This email is from ‘Ankour’. I’m familiar with the name."

  Rowe sat up. "Can you trace the address?"

  Otto chirruped. "It bounces through six different countries and dead ends at an anonymizer. Ankour did not want to be found.”

  "Anything else?"

  "An email to ‘Gil-dong’, no family name. I am unable to track who forwarded it."

  "Can you find Gil-dong’s identity?"

  "With difficulty. It is like John Doe in Korean."

  North Korea again. It gave Rowe an idea. "Focus on anyone related to the upcoming missile test program and, uh, turn yourself off when you’re done."

  Rowe phoned James and told him about the positive tie-in between Mohammed and Al-alah, then asked where the terrorist ended up.

  “My agent lost him. One instant, we were following him, the next, three cars all driven by Middle Eastern males in the same shirt appeared. We tailed the wrong one. I put a BOLO out. As soon as I get a warrant, the team will ransack the house.”

  Rowe bit back a string of profanities settling for, “I'm going to sit on it in case he returns."

  Forty-five minutes later, he shoehorned himself into the last spot on Al-alah’s street. The lights were out in the house and the driveway empty. Rowe rang the bell and wiggled the knob. It opened. He debated going in, but it could be a booby trap. Instead, he snuck around outside removing his spycams and peering in windows.

  As he walked back to the car, his phone rang.

  "Duck." Rowe breathed a sigh of relief. “Where the hell are you?”

  "On my way to San Diego. James gave me an update.”

  "Talk to Detective Charlie Ruiz." The phone went dead in his ear.

  Rowe knew Al-alah had left for good but hoped his contacts didn’t, so sat in his car, stomach in a knot, staring at the house. Al-alah had been activated for this jihad after being asleep for a decade. He came to America under his own name. After all that, what in a phone call drove him away?

  The night was warm, the sky a
dull black, the stars remote pinpricks and the moon a pale blue-white half-disk high overhead. Cooking fragrances wafted by his car, as did the drone of TVs playing sitcoms and reality shows. Here and there, music played.

  Just as he decided this was a waste of time, Babe came out for a constitutional. He must have recognized Rowe’s scent and wanted to visit. He tugged so hard, he broke loose from the leash. The dog froze a moment, surprised by his freedom, then took off for Rowe’s car, ears flying, mouth open, rushing forward in blissful abandon.

  Oblivious to the car hurtling down the street. It would never see Babe in the gloom.

  “Damn.” Rowe jumped out of the car and into the street. Shocked eyes jerked left and zipped past. No brakes, but he had time to fling a finger at Rowe.

  Rowe scooped the canine out of the air as he leaped to greet Zeke and crushed him to his chest. “Hello, boy, aren’t you a wonderful pup. Come over to say hi, did you?” His chest heaved as the dog struggled in his grasp. “I ran out of bones, but I can pat your belly.” He turned the dog over in the crook of his arm and vigorously rubbed his tummy. Babe’s legs squirmed, chest pumped up and down, and if he could, Rowe figured he would have laughed.

  “Hey!” A strident voice broke their play. “That’s my dog.”

  “Just saying hi, ma’am” and he gently placed Babe back on the ground with a head pat. “He’s a cute dog.” Babe wagged his entire body in a spasm of greeting.

  The woman glared at Rowe in response, circled the collar around Babe’s neck, and yanked the poor thing viciously. Babe’s ears went flat and he whimpered.

  Rowe recoiled. “He’ll go easier if you’re friendly,” but the woman stomped away. Rowe wished he had the ASPCA on speed dial.

  Ten minutes later, he was picking out constellations, starting with the Big Dipper, when a voice came out of his phone.