89
Winding his way through the hill country on Rural Route 160, the van’s driver, Shakey Kundi, passed a tiny hamlet named Kingdom Come, Kentucky. It was an appropriate name for what was on his mind. He tried listening to radio news broadcasts that might alert him if authorities had a description of his van, but there was nothing.
Shakey was confident his identity and vehicle description were unknown. Although, it wouldn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out there was a false wall in the basement in Queens and locate the third body hidden behind it. At any rate, the likelihood that anyone would dispute that body’s identity as being that of one Shakhar “Shakey” Kundi was highly unlikely. The corpse actually belonged to the van’s original driver, the young apprentice that brought Waseem Jarrah to the house. The man was roughly the same size and build as Shakey, only now his face was so swollen from exposure to radiation that not even facial recognition software would be able to accurately identify the body.
The location of the body, the fact that Shakey’s driver’s license and wallet would be found on him, and the fingerprints—those brilliant false fingerprints—would certainly seal the identity. Authorities would believe they had positively identified Shakey Kundi.
No, his anonymity was safe. They wouldn’t even know who they were looking for. The van itself was also unlikely to be identified. It was plain white and nondescript, with no markings or obvious damage. It was the kind of thing you’d see driving every road in America. The one thing he had wanted to do, switch license plates, had been done at a gas station just outside of Lexington. So, even if the van’s license plates had been spotted leaving Queens, they were now different.
All he wanted to do was get to his final destination. If he could just get there—even if he was discovered—he’d be able to detonate and strike a blow against the beast. If authorities looking for him set up a roadblock out here on these mountain roads, and he became trapped, detonating the device would result in little loss of life. Since he was getting so close to his objective, he decided now was the time to affix the large, magnetic signage to the outside of the van. His disguise as a balloon vendor would have to be convincing in order for him to position the device in the most opportune—and most lethal—location.
He rounded the bend and crossed a small babbling stream. There weren’t many places to pull off on winding roads like these, but he found a turnoff into a small elementary school. There were no vehicles in the parking lot of the little red brick building that read “Kingdom Come Settlement School.” It looked a little like a small factory building with a loading dock but was used as an elementary school nonetheless. With the backdrop of tree-covered hills and no one around, he jumped out of the van and stretched his legs. There was a tiny outbuilding with a faded sign that read, “Pine Mountain Search and Rescue.” Well, he was on the right mountain, anyway.
Shakey decorated the backside of the building with urine and then walked back to the van, still shaking the cobwebs free. It was then he noticed something that stopped him in his tracks. The van—the right side of the van. It had a large magnetic sign on it that read “Marvin’s Balloons.” The van was supposed to be clean and free of markings. The signage had already been applied to that side of the van, and he simply hadn’t noticed. This was an unbelievable oversight on his part. The magnetic signs weren’t supposed to be placed on the outside of the van until closer to the final objective. How could I have been so stupid? he thought. What if someone spotted that damned sign with the huge bushel of balloons on it? It could be just the thing that might give him away. His heart pounded. What if he had been seen leaving the house? What if they were out looking for the dumbass Middle Easterner driving the balloon truck right now? He was furious. This was his fault and no one else’s.
After careful consideration, he decided it was too late now. He was so close to the final objective. And besides, he had to attach the magnetic signs prior to entering the site anyway; they were his ticket in. Without any hesitation, he popped open the back doors, grabbed the other sign, and stuck it in place. There was no turning back. When he departed, a light cloud of dust sputtered up from underneath the accelerating tires.
The little stream babbled on, quietly basking in the comfort of its ignorance.
90
Listening to the siren from the backseat of the black Ford Excursion took its toll on Jana’s head. They’d been barreling down Kentucky Interstate 81 for over an hour, weaving in and out of cars. The headache started low in the back and was accentuated by ever-tightening neck muscles. And now, it crept its way forward. The intensity of the past few days was manifesting itself physically. Her neck and shoulders were in knots, but in the boy’s club of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, this was no time to show weakness.
She’d spent so much time with Cade that to separate now seemed so abrupt. For the past several days he had acted as a sounding board for her, but now she felt more on her own, more alone. To ease her pounding head, Jana needed a distraction. Staring off into the Kentucky countryside would have normally been soothing, but barreling down the interstate at ninety to one hundred miles per hour had its downside. She pulled out a snug-fitting pair of earbuds, closed her eyes, and listened to music.
Before long, she drifted into that space between sleeping and waking, where your ears pick up sounds that are then incorporated into your semi-dreams as they unfold around you. In this dream, softly flowing light cascaded across a single framed photograph. It was an image that was held in her memory since she was just a child. It was a picture of her grandfather who had raised her from the age of four. Back then, he had become her life, her everything.
As she held the photograph, the image went into motion. Her grandfather slowly stepped out of the frame and stood beside her. He was radiant—his smile, glorious. He held out his hand and touched it to Jana’s face as a tear formed in his eye. It was not a tear of sadness but more an expression of solemn pride only a parent can know. Jana’s heartbeat increased as real tears of her own formed. Her grandfather whispered one word. It was the word “soon.”
The vehicle hurtled down the highway, rocking back and forth as the music in her earbuds picked up tempo.
Can you take me with you
To the place where lame men walk
Can you take me with you
To the place with gold-lined streets
The driver hit the brakes, jarring the vehicle and startling Jana awake; her seatbelt barked into her chest.
“Whoa! Goddamn, guy. I swear, if we weren’t in such a hurry, I’d pull his ass over,” said the driver.
“Calm down there, Little Hoss,” said Latent. “Don’t want to get sidetracked.” He was probably the only FBI director in the agency’s history that would participate in an active field investigation. This was one of the reasons the agents loved him—he was one of them.
While all the other agents were distracted with the traffic, Jana dabbed her eyes against her shirt. The tears in her dream were real, and the song playing in her earbuds continued.
Up here I feel like I’m alive
I feel like I’m alive for the very first time
Up here, I’ll take these dreams
And make them mine
I’m strong enough, strong enough to take these dreams
And make them mine
Can you take me with you
To the place where lame men walk
Can you take me with you
To the place with gold-lined streets
Jana pulled off the earbuds and rubbed her eyes. The powernap was just what she needed. The headache was still there, but she felt much better. By this time, law enforcement agencies all over the tristate area were in full swing. They had set up roadblocks to inspect cars, check trunks, and look for anything out of the ordinary. FBI teams were arriving at destinations all over the state, hoping to be the ones to stop a terrorist in his tracks. The wooded hill country grew larger in the windshield. They were getting close.
>
91
The white van idled as Shakey checked his watch. Right on time, he thought. There were at least twenty cars and pickups in line waiting to enter a parking area where they would catch a bus and go up the hill to the bluegrass festival.
Eighteen cars to go.
Shakey’s nerves were starting to fray. The deputy at the top of the hill seemed to be checking cars before they were allowed to proceed, and it scared him.
Thirteen cars to go.
The bomb sat ten feet behind and mocked him through the rearview mirror. If the deputy became suspicious, Shakey wouldn’t have enough time to arm and detonate it. As he edged farther up the hill, he closed the distance to the deputy, and his heart raced.
Seven cars to go.
Up ahead, another deputy inspected the undersides of vehicles with a mirror on a long pole, waving it underneath each car, scanning for explosives. Shakey’s heart pounded harder, and a small bead of sweat pushed its way onto his forehead.
Four cars to go.
He sat on the very precipice of an event that would make his name known the world over. Brothers in arms would be filled with pride once he unleashed the fury of a nuclear weapon inside the heart of the beast.
Three cars to go.
Never before had any of his brothers been able to bring this type of fury and retribution.
Two cars to go.
Shakey pushed his right hand down between the seat and console. Where is it? Wait, ah, there. The hardened plastic handle of the Glock 17 nine millimeter snugged into his hand.
One car to go.
His throat tightened, and his breathing went erratic. The sense of panic was unbearable. Kill the deputy? Gun the engine, run him down? Race up the hillside toward the festival? I can do it, I know I can do it, I have to do it, otherwise the deputy might get the drop on me, even shoot me, I wouldn’t have time to detonate . . . wouldn’t have time to detonate, everything I’ve worked for, everything is riding on this . . .
“Afternoon, partner,” said Deputy Skeeter McAfee. “Glad you could come up and visit with us.” His giant grin produced a calming effect. “Hope you don’ mind, but we need to check yer ve-hicle right quick.”
Shakey’s grip tightened on the Glock.
“Oh, no. H-h-h-e-help yourself. Why the need to check?”
“Oh, you know, jes makin’ sure there ain’ no dynamite nor TNT nor bazookas or nothin’!” Skeeter laughed to himself. “Ya mind openin’ the back fer me? Sure would ’preciate it.”
“Oh, no, not at all.” Shakey loosened his grip on the handgun and jumped out of his seat, pasting on a fake smile.
“So, what cha got back here?” smiled Skeeter. “Looks like balloons and stuff. Hey! You mind blowin’ me up one? Oh wait, gosh, I shouldn’t ask ya that. It’s jes that I think it’d be fun for folks to see a deputy with a balloon tied to his wrist. Might make the kids laugh.”
“Of course, oh no, don’t worry about it.”
Shakey reached into a box, pulled out a red balloon, and hoped the deputy wouldn’t notice the shaking of his hands. The top portion of the device’s canister was filled with a small amount of compressed helium. It was the perfect cover.
“Oh, pardner, that’s jes so nice of ya. Now, I tell you what. Since yer a vender, you jes pull right on around the bend up there. You keep a-goin’ till you see that first right. You can’t miss it ’cause Old Man Lipton’s oak tree? You know, it fell over last spring. Anyway, you’ll see it there. You jes turn in there, and that’ll lead ya right to the vender parkin’ area. Have fun now! We’re glad ya came.”
Tension vacated Shakey’s spine like water poured from a glass. “We’re glad ya came.” You won’t be glad in a little while, you fat pig. You and sixteen thousand others. I’m going to light you up like the fires of hell.
92
Director Latent spent most of the car ride on the satellite phone coordinating other teams. Across the country, the terror cell’s wave of final objectives abated. All the members of the terror cell were now either captured or dead. People quickly tired of staying in their homes, and many went out. There was a clear level of anger that reverberated through the very fiber of the land. Citizens targeted anyone that looked like they deserved it. Riots erupted in Los Angeles and Detroit. In Dayton, a mosque in the midst of services had its exits blocked and was firebombed. Police attempted to battle their way through the rioting crowds to rescue those trapped inside. The last word Latent received was that the worshipers were still trapped.
There were hate crimes happening in many other areas as well, and all of them were directed at people of Middle Eastern descent. A mosque was on fire in New York City about six blocks from the FBI field office. The streets filled with people fleeing the area, and agents on the seventeenth floor said the thick billowing smoke reminded them of 9/11.
A huge mosque in downtown Atlanta, still under construction, was desecrated. In Philadelphia, a woman wearing a traditional veil was the victim of a hit-and-run. Hate crimes popped up everywhere. Anyone with a dark complexion and black hair feared for their safety, no matter what their background or where they grew up. It wasn’t safe to go outside their homes, and sometimes, it wasn’t safe to stay inside either.
Local law enforcement personnel were to blame for some of the hate as well. They descended on towns all across America, throwing up roadblocks, conducting random searches, and raiding mosques. Not since the days of the civil rights movement had one group been so targeted; only this time, it wasn’t simply for the color of their skin, it was also for their religious beliefs.
Latent turned around in his seat. “All right, folks, listen up. I know we’re all distracted by what’s going on all around the country. Some of you are even concerned for your family members back home. I know, I know. The president activated the National Guard in seventeen communities. There will be hell to pay in the end, but they will restore order. As for us, we’ve got to maintain focus. Let’s stay on point. I realize that us showing up at some festival might seem like a needle in a haystack kind of operation, but we’ve got to be boots on the ground. This won’t be the last stop we make. If one of the other teams doesn’t stop this asshole, we’ll bounce from place to place until we do.
“Now, let’s talk about this specific spot. This is a local bluegrass festival. Looks like it’s been going on for decades. There are an estimated sixteen thousand people in attendance. They come from small towns all over the surrounding areas. And remember, it’s not just the eight of us—there are dozens of local cops there as well. At the moment, they’re looking for anything. Stopping all the vehicles, searching trunks, the whole nine yards. When we get there, leave the blue windbreakers in the vehicle. Am I clear? I don’t want to give away our position. I want all of us as inconspicuous as possible. We’ll break up into four groups of two. I expect everyone to be listening in to your earpiece. Stay in communication. Here’s a map of the event site. Looks like a wide-open plateau kind of area, surrounded by all these hills. One thing scares the shit out of me—this place is fed by nothing but two-lane mountain roads. If we had to, it would take several hours to evacuate. There’s no quick way out. If the bomber is able to set a timer or set the detonation in motion in any way . . . God help us all.”
An agent in the back row said, “Sir, one thing that makes me nervous here.”
“Just one thing? What is it?”
“Well, if I’m reading this topo map correctly, and the elevations are correct, this site forms kind of a bowl.”
“A bowl. And?” said Latent.
“Well, the device we’re after is nominal, less than half a kiloton, right? That means it wouldn’t have much of a blast radius. An area as wide as this festival would only be about 30 percent covered by the blast. The bomb chucker would obviously know this, and thus he wouldn’t choose this as a target.”
“So you’re saying we’re wasting our time?”
The agent continued as if he hadn’t heard the question. “But, you pu
t half a kiloton into a bowl-shaped space, like this one, with mountain walls on all sides . . . the effects would be . . . let’s just say, the effects would be magnified.”
“Like how magnified?” said Latent.
“A half a kiloton would vaporize every living thing.”
“Mike Slayden, WBS News. We’re live just outside of Dayton, Ohio, where a pitched gun battle is raging in the streets just a few blocks ahead of us here. Police have restricted media access to the area, but all reports say that a local mosque in the midst of services was firebombed. Worshipers were trapped inside, and the building was surrounded by an angry mob that prevented people from escaping and prevented police and emergency personnel from entering to aid in the rescue. Moments ago, those trapped inside did receive aid when about sixty men, all allegedly of Islamic descent, crashed vehicles into the blockade and created a perimeter of defense with their cars. They evacuated the trapped worshipers out the back of the mosque and exchanged gunfire with the mostly Caucasian rioters. Here’s an interview we recorded earlier with resident Charles Denny, a native of Dayton, who witnessed the atrocity. ‘We can see the smoke from here . . . it’s just unimaginable that here in the United States, in the land of Dr. Martin Luther King, that people could resort to something like this, to hatred like this. There’s blood everywhere. Blood in the streets. I saw a mother carrying a baby that was so black it looked to be charred. It makes me sick, just sick to be an American right now. This is not the land my father fought for.’ For now, Mike Slayden, WBS News, Dayton.”
Spy Thriller: The Fourteenth Protocol: A Story of Espionage and Counter-terrorism (The Special Agent Jana Baker Book Series 1) Page 31