by Mark Terry
“The name of the person?”
Greg leaned back. “You know, Derek, although I appreciate the money the government gave me for my initial assistance, this information will cost you a lot—”
Derek fired his Colt. The bullet passed within inches of Popovitch’s head, shattering the passenger window into a million little squares of glass. The sound of the gunshot was deafening in the confines of the car. Cool night air flowed in.
“Jesus Christ, Stillwater! Are you fuckin’ crazy?” Popovitch brushed glass chips off his pants.
“Don’t start thinking this is a negotiation, Greg. You’re helping me out here or I’m dumping your body in a landfill. I tried doing this your way and O’Reilly’s way. Now we’re doing things my way. What’s his name?”
“Shit.”
“Name.”
“This is a guy who will think nothing of shooting you just because he doesn’t like the way you look.”
“I’m a pretty good-looking guy. I’ll take my chances. Name.”
Popovitch sighed. “Ishaq Mohammed Mukhtar.”
“Great. Another guy named Mohammed. Just what I need. Okay. Good. Let’s go talk to him. Give me directions.”
“Jesus Christ, Stillwater. Aren’t you listening? Are you trying to get us both killed?”
Derek held up the Colt. “I’m trying to keep a lot of people from getting killed. You, on the other hand, are expendable.”
“All right, all right. Get on the Ten and head west. It’s coming up. We’re going to Playa del Rey. Jesus, Stillwater. Mukhtar is not a guy to screw around with.”
“I’ll be very diplomatic.” Derek glanced over at Popovitch and waggled his eyebrows. “Promise.”
CHAPTER 14
Kalakar paced around the bedroom his hosts had provided. He had finished his prayers for the evening and was trying to set his mind for the Tahajjud prayers he would rise early in the morning to make. But he was jittery, so he paced.
The sound of hurried footsteps were followed by a tentative knock on the door. “Yes?”
The door crept open and his host, John Seddiqi, peered in. “Kalakar, I have—you need to see this, I think.”
Kalakar followed John into the living room, where the TV was on. It showed a news broadcast from CNN. A reporter was talking about a bomb blast in Dallas.
It has been confirmed that the bomb was a so-called dirty bomb. A dirty bomb is not a nuclear weapon, but a regular bomb using regular explosives—gunpowder or plastic explosives or dynamite—that also has radioactive isotopes present, so it spreads radiation. The immediate area around the blast, which took place at the Loos Field House outside Dallas, has been evacuated. The building was not in use at the time. It’s not known at this time whether or not there were any casualties. We’re going to go live to Dallas.
Kalakar clenched his fists. What had happened? It wasn’t supposed to go off now. This was too early. He paced, running his hands through his dark hair. Turning to John, he asked, “What else have they said?”
John shrugged, his dark eyes worried. “Not much. It caused some damage to the building and people are panicking because of the radiation, although they’ve had some people from the FBI and Homeland Security saying the radiation levels aren’t all that high and people shouldn’t panic.”
Kalakar nodded. Was this a catastrophe? He couldn’t decide, couldn’t focus.
“You’re not responsible for this, are you?”
Kalakar turned on the man. “My plans are none of your concern. You have one job and one job only. It is all I and Allah ask of you.”
The slender man blinked and nodded. “My apologies. Of course. I am here to serve Allah.”
Kalakar softened his response. He needed John Seddiqi, but John didn’t need to know what was really going on, and he did not trust John’s tenuous—at best—commitment to jihad. No, John was an unwitting tool and it would be better if he just thought he was providing some innocuous information and offering his house as a place to stay quietly for a few days. Kalakar rested his hand on John’s shoulder. “I appreciate your hospitality, John. I really do.” He waved at the TV. “As for this event in Dallas, I don’t know anything about it. It’s a terrible thing. And so senseless.”
Kalakar thought of what this premature explosion might mean to his plan. So many things had already gone wrong. He said, “You should go to bed, my friend. Get some sleep. You have a busy day at work tomorrow.”
John nodded, swallowing hard. “Of course.”
Kalakar patted him on the shoulder. “Go, go to bed. Kiss your daughter goodnight, go to sleep with your good wife. Don’t worry about this.” He gestured again at the TV. “This is Allah’s will.”
John hesitated before replying. “May Allah be praised.”
After John headed for his bedroom, Kalakar scowled at the television set. He had much thinking to do. Would the explosion in Dallas change his plans? Certainly it would convince the Americans that the plan was really going to happen. But it worried him that he had not had time to edit the files on the computers in Islamabad.
As he watched, CNN cut to Vice President Newman, who was in Atlanta. The distinguished politician said, “This further reinforces why we must focus on domestic defense and homeland security. Although information is still coming in, I’m just grateful that there appears to be few if any fatalities. I encourage all Dallas residents to stay calm and listen to the authorities and follow their directions on how best to keep your families safe.”
A reporter said, “Does this change your itinerary for the next two days, Mr. Vice President?”
Newman, looking properly grave, said, “Of course not. We can’t let these sorts of attacks frighten the American voter or prevent the democratic electoral process from happening. I will continue with my election schedule and be visiting Dallas, as well as many other cities around the country, between now and Tuesday.”
Kalakar smiled. “Allah is great,” he said. “Praise Allah.”
CHAPTER 15
Greg Popovitch directed Derek to a parking lot outside Pier 35, a Marina del Rey facility hosting larger boats. Derek felt immediately at home. He lived at Bayman’s Marina near Baltimore on the Chesapeake Bay. He loved boats.
Popovitch stared through the windshield of the bucar for a moment. “This is a really bad idea, Derek.”
“Get out of the fucking car, Greg.”
“I want my piece back.”
“I want peace on earth and goodwill toward men. Doesn’t mean I’m going to get it.”
Popovitch clenched his jaw and shook his head. “You know, you can threaten me all you want. You might smack me in the face, hell, you might even shoot me in the leg. I understand, Derek—you can be a real bastard and you’re trying to convince me that cooperating will be less painful. I’ve had the training, I’ve been on both ends of this. But the two of us going over and confronting Ishaq Mukhtar unarmed is suicide. Give me my guns back, dammit.”
After a moment’s consideration, Derek handed over the Walther. He studied Popovitch, who checked it and slid it into the pocket of his warm-up jacket. Derek said, “They’re going to search us, aren’t they?”
Popovitch nodded.
“So why do you really want the gun?”
They climbed out of the car. Resting his hands on the roof of the bucar, Popovitch said, “What kind of message do you think it sends if you’re armed to the teeth and I’m not, particularly since I’m here with a nice fat lip, thanks to you? It tells them that I can’t be trusted and neither can you. But if we walk in there like two pros, on equal footing, Mukhtar will hopefully consider this a possible business deal and not shoot us both just for showing up without an appointment.”
“Okay, Greg. Let’s play it your way. Where are we going?”
Popovitch led the way. Out on the docks of the marina, Derek glanced around. The boats here weren’t boats, they were yachts. Beautiful works of ocean-going art that were probably custom-built and cost millions of dollars. “W
hich one?”
With a wave of his hand, Popovitch said, “The trideck Trinity over there.”
Derek looked to where Popovitch waved and whistled. “Baby!”
Popovitch nodded in agreement. “It ain’t no rowboat, that’s for damned sure. One hundred and fifty-six feet, crews twelve, has a cruising speed of twenty-two knots.”
“You seem to know a lot about it.”
“Mukhtar loves to talk about this boat and you might say I’ve got some boat envy going on.”
“Yeah,” Derek said, walking forward, studying the sleek lines of the yacht. “Me, too.”
They were stopped by a burly, dark-skinned guy with close-cropped black hair and a nose like a falcon’s beak. “No farther,” he said. His voice was heavy and slow, deeply accented. Derek had no difficulty identifying the bulge on the guy’s hip or the glittery look in his eyes.
“We need to speak with Mr. Mukhtar,” Popovitch said.
The guard focused on Popovitch, drew a walkie-talkie to his lips and spoke in deliberate Arabic. Derek caught “Popovitch” but couldn’t translate any of the rest.
The guard said, “Mr. Mukhtar wants to know what this is about. He says it is late.”
“Tell him there’s a possible last-minute business deal he will probably be interested in.”
The guard stared at Popovitch, spoke again into the radio, gaze drifting to Derek. After a moment, he handed the walkie-talkie to Popovitch. “Mr. Mukhtar wishes to speak with you.”
Popovitch arched his eyebrows at Derek, took the radio, and said, “Ishaq, it’s Greg Popovitch. Sorry to show up so late and unannounced.”
“Who is that with you, Greg?”
Popovitch looked at Derek for a moment before he pushed the talk button. “His name is Derek Stillwater. He’s with Homeland Security.”
The guard tensed, moving toward Derek. Derek flashed him a warning look, but the guard kept coming, reaching for his gun. Derek didn’t let him get the gun out of its holster. He caught the guard’s crotch with his left hand—gently. “Take it easy or I’m going to clench my fist.”
The guard didn’t move.
“Jesus.” Popovitch said into the radio, “This isn’t a bust, it’s informational.”
Derek said, “Tell him I love his boat.”
Popovitch rolled his eyes. He held the radio away from his body. “Are you fucking nuts?”
“Tell him I live on a boat.”
Popovitch said, “Ishaq, he wants me to tell you that he lives on a boat.”
The walkie-talkie buzzed. Mukhtar said, “What kind?”
“Sixty-foot Chris-Craft Constellation. Built in 1961.”
Popovitch eyed Derek. After a moment he relayed the information to Mukhtar. Mukhtar replied, “Come on up. Leave your weapons with Bulus and come aboard.”
Derek let go of Bulus’s testicles and handed over the confiscated .38 and his Colt. Popovitch handed over his Walther. Bulus said, “Hands on your heads.”
“Hey, no hard feelings.” Derek assumed the position.
Bulus didn’t comment, but his pat down was a little more aggressive than Derek thought was necessary. Once Bulus decided they were clean, he waved them down the dock.
At the top of the gangplank stood another burly Arab wearing white pants, white shirt, and a navy blazer. His appearance didn’t quite scream “thug” the way Bulus’s did, but there was little disguising his purpose. He directed them to place their hands on top of their heads again, which they did. He patted them down, and ran a handheld metal detector over them, confiscating Derek’s knife and car keys and satellite phone.
“Boy, you guys know how to make a fellow seem welcome,” Derek said.
This new guard didn’t respond except to say, “Follow me, please.”
Derek admired the boat as they moved from the lower deck up two staircases to the skylounge. Teak, mahogany, gleaming fiberglass. Derek wasn’t an art expert by any stretch of the imagination, but he thought he recognized a Cezanne hanging on the wall. In the skylounge, with a great view of the harbor, waited another armed guard. Dressed like his two partners in white slacks and a blue blazer, he had accessorized with an Uzi. Seated in a comfortable chair sipping from a glass of wine was the person Derek assumed was Ishaq Mukhtar.
Mukhtar remained seated. He gestured with a thick hand adorned with bejeweled rings. “Greg, this is quite unusual. Everything okay?”
Derek stepped forward. “I made him bring me here. I need your help.”
Mukhtar studied Derek. “Mr. Stillwater? Or should I say Agent Still-water?”
Popovitch said, “Actually, he’s a professor. So Dr. Derek Stillwater.”
Mukhtar nodded, expression politely interested. “And what are you a professor of, Doctor?”
“Biochemistry, basically.”
“Interesting.”
“Tell him,” Popovitch said.
Derek nodded. “I’m a troubleshooter for the Department of Home-land Security. My specialty is biological and chemical terrorism.”
“For it or against it?” Mukhtar burst into bubbling laughter at his own joke. He was a large man, scalp shaved, his goatee white and thick. Not fat, he was solid, and tailored his clothes carefully to minimize the impression he might enjoy food and drink too much.
“Preventing it,” Derek said.
“Of course. This is certainly not—”
Derek interrupted. “If I may, Mr. Mukhtar. We have intelligence that suggests there’s going to be a major terrorist attack here in L.A. on election day.”
“There has been one in Dallas, apparently.”
Derek nodded and continued. “And there’s a possibility that it will involve a small nuclear weapon.”
Mukhtar’s eyes widened. “I see. Most interesting. So why come to me?”
Popovitch said, “If something like this came into the area, I imagine you would have heard of it.”
The Arab’s eyes closed momentarily. His expression changed and he waved a hand at his two security guards. “I’m insulted. Escort them out, please.”
Derek stepped forward. “Please, just a name. Somewhere to go next. You can’t want something like this to happen here.”
Mukhtar’s voice was cold. “Get out. Get them out of here. Now.”
The two guards stepped forward. Derek jabbed his elbow into the Uzi guard’s throat, caught the gun barrel with his other hand and kicked the man’s feet out from under him. To his relief, Popovitch spun and took out the other guard with a one-two combination. Popovitch reached down and withdrew the guard’s handgun.
Derek kept the Uzi pointed at the two guards. “You gave a reference for Abdul Mohammad when you sent him to Greg. How did you know him?”
Mukhtar’s face darkened an angry plum. “You are a guest on my—”
Derek stomped over to the man and said, “I need your help. You can volunteer the information or I can use every method I can think of to get it out of you, which will not exclude arrest, torture, or blowing up your fucking boat.”
Popovitch said, “Unfortunately, Ishaq, he’s not kidding.”
“How dare you bring him to me.”
Popovitch snorted. “Like I had a choice.”
Derek leaned forward and pressed the Uzi against Mukhtar’s right knee. “I hope this is on single shot. I’d hate to blow your leg off by accident.”
The Arab didn’t flinch. He just glared at him. “What do you need to know?”
“How did you know Abdul Mohammad?”
“I received a phone call from a business acquaintance.”
“Who?”
Mukhtar’s face shifted from anger to a crafty calculation. “And what do I receive for this privileged information?”
“Two useful limbs.”
“And if you torture and kill me and I tell you nothing, what then?”
“I’ll find somebody else to annoy. You, on the other hand, will have had a really bad day.”
“Twenty thousand,” Popovitch said.
Mukhtar glanced over. “What was that?”
“Derek will arrange twenty thousand dollars into whatever account you want.”
With an elaborate shrug, Mukhtar said, “That is not much money for the information I might have.”
Derek pressed down with the Uzi. “Consider it the cherry on top of being able to walk. Think of it as a way of saving face.”