by Mark Terry
He knew that Kalakar had something big planned for Los Angeles. That it somehow involved either Vice President Newman or Governor Stark’s visits to Los Angeles for tomorrow’s election.
Glancing at the monitor, John noted that Vice President Newman’s plane would be routed through the northern approach.
His job was to phone Kalakar with the approach and GPS coordinates on the ground so Kalakar could identify the plane.
John didn’t know why this was important. He couldn’t imagine what Kalakar would be able to do with this information.
John had been educated in air traffic control during his stint in the Pakistan Air Force. His cousin, Shaukat Seddiqi, had asked him to host Kalakar for a couple weeks and do whatever he asked.
John was sympathetic to al-Qaeda, although he felt their attacks on civilians were getting out of control. He was a good Muslim, however, and he felt that Americans—and probably all westerners—just didn’t understand the legitimate complaints of the Muslim world. Americans, he thought, were oblivious to the effects of their actions—that they were a relatively small proportion of the people on Earth, but squandered a disproportionate amount of the planet’s gifts—oil, food, water, natural resources. And they aligned themselves with governments and leaders who were evil and oppressive just so they could maintain those natural resources.
But John did not have sympathy for the terrorist tactics. He thought the 9/11 attacks were evil and misguided.
He fingered the phone in his pocket. He was supposed to call Kalakar.
He thought of Ghazala. He thought of his daughter. He shook his head.
He would not call.
And as he thought that, his phone rang. He answered it. “Seddiqi.”
It was Kalakar. “What’s going on, John? You haven’t called me yet. The news reports say Vice President Newman’s doing a rally in L.A. in ninety minutes. Where is he?”
Glancing nervously around the control tower, John said, “I can’t talk now.” And hung up.
He broke out into a sweat. His stomach churned. He set his jaw and thought, I will not cooperate with you, Kalakar.
CHAPTER 33
Kalakar clenched the cell phone in his fist. If John Seddiqi had been in the truck with him at that moment, he would have snapped the man’s neck with his bare hands. Waves of fury washed over him. This entire operation was falling to pieces. From the very beginning, when the Pakistani National Police and the FBI raided the apartment prematurely, he had been playing catch-up, trying to improvise an operation that had been planned for months.
Kalakar glared around him. He was parked near the Observatory in Griffith Park, the white building all shiny and clean against the washed-out blue of the L.A. sky. He wanted to scream. He wanted badly to hurt someone, to break and destroy something.
Controlling his rage, he pressed his fingers to his temples, rubbing away the headache that was starting there. The first problem had been the premature raid. But the raid itself had been expected and part of the plan. The biggest problem with the raid had been that although the three laptops had been booby-trapped—one to go off, one to possibly go off, and one to fail—Kalakar had not yet finalized the data on the hard drives. The Los Angeles location was not supposed to be included on the hard drives.
The multiple attacks around the country were, ultimately, planned to be diversions away from the main event, the downing of either of the presidential nominees’ planes as they flew into Los Angeles. This would throw the U.S. government into a panic; the traditional rollover of power would be disrupted.
Al-Qaeda would directly affect the election of the next president of the United States.
But everything was going wrong.
The Dallas bomb had been set off prematurely. As a result, Kalakar had decided to push ahead most of his planned attacks.
He did not know exactly what had happened in Washington, D.C. It sounded like his team there had been caught by the authorities and committed suicide with the bombs.
The Chicago attacker had lost his nerve.
The only attack that had gone according to plan was the attack on the cruise ship. It had been in the planning stages for a long time and, in fact, had not been planned for this week. But with the U.S. government tearing apart L.A. to prevent an attack, Kalakar needed them to think the attack had already gone down. He had sent a message off to Ibrahim Sheik Muhammad, ordering him to give Aleem Tafir and his people the go-ahead.
Now everyone would be looking to New York City.
Los Angeles would be wide open for the prime attack on the presidential candidates.
Except John Seddiqi was balking.
Think, think, think.
He knew Vice President Newman was in Los Angeles today.
And Governor Stark would be in Los Angeles tomorrow morning for a rally on election day.
Kalakar looked at his watch. It was 3:00 pm on Monday. Stark would fly into LAX around 8:00 or 8:30 tomorrow morning, on Tuesday. He had less than fifteen hours to put together another operation.
Putting the truck into gear, he headed out of Griffith Park and back toward Inglewood. Seddiqi was going to cooperate. Kalakar was going to guarantee it.
CHAPTER 34
As O’Reilly drove toward Malibu, Derek leaned back and closed his eyes. He tried to not think, letting his subconscious mind work through everything that had happened. His iPod had been destroyed in his Go Pack in the fire, otherwise he’d plug in and listen to music. That usually helped him.
He felt jittery and ill, like he had drunk a gallon of Turkish coffee. His gut told him he was missing something, something big.
Derek opened his eyes and asked for O’Reilly’s phone.
“Why?”
“It’s a simple request, O’Reilly. But if you must know the truth, I’m going to order a pizza. You like anchovies?”
She glared at him. He glared right back. Finally she turned over the phone and he dialed Secretary Johnston, whose first response was, “I’m still working on Pakistan, Derek. Show a little fucking patience.”
Derek laughed. “That’s not what I wanted. Isn’t Stark or Newman coming into L.A. today?”
Johnston’s voice was throatier and rougher than usual. “Newman’s there right now.”
“Where?”
“Century Plaza Hotel, then over to the UCLA campus, then flying up to Sacramento to speak at the Capitol Building, then down to San Francisco. Why?”
“I don’t know. I was just thinking. What about Stark?”
“He’s coming into L.A. tomorrow morning. He’s a little weak in California, so he’s spending more time there.”
“Send us an itinerary, would you? For both of them.”
“Is this your gut feeling again, Derek?”
“I don’t know. Maybe.”
“I’ll e-mail it to—”
“My regular account.”
“Will do.”
He clicked off and Derek said, “Pretty tough to disrupt these things, though. The Secret Service is all over them.” But not impossible, he thought.
O’Reilly seemed to be following his train of thought. “Hard to guard against a suicide attack.”
Derek nodded.
He drifted off a bit, waking as O’Reilly pulled into the drive of Popovitch’s beach house. She muttered, “Nice place.”
“I imagine it’ll be up for sale soon if you’re in the market.”
“Asshole.”
Derek crawled out of the car, slapping his pocket to make sure he still had the keys to the junky bucar he had left in Greg’s driveway. “Bye O’Reilly. Been the same old pleasure.”
“Stop somewhere and pick up a damned phone, Derek. Then keep me posted.”
He shot her a mocking salute. “Yes sir, ma’am. I work at the pleasure of my leader, Commandant O’Reilly.”
O’Reilly paused, as if she had something to say, shook her head, reversed with a squeal of tires, and pulled out of the driveway.
Derek turned and s
tudied the house. Here was the thing: he didn’t just want to get back here for the bucar. He wanted to get inside the house. Greg Popovitch knew all the low-lifes and bad guys up and down the entire West Coast. Somewhere in Greg’s house there were records and contact information. Derek wanted it.
And in order to get it, he was going to have to do some B&E and he doubted O’Reilly was going to cooperate. Better to get rid of her.
Now, though, he needed to contend with Greg’s alarm system, which was a significant deterrent if he didn’t want the alarm company to call the cops on him. If he could find a work-around, good; if he couldn’t, he’d do a smash-and-grab and get the hell out of Dodge.
The first thing he did was hop in the bucar, fire it up, and turn it around so it was nosed toward the exit.
The second thing he did was find a patch of fine beach sand—it was blowing all over the place—and pocketed it.
The third thing Derek did was approach the door. It was solid enough, but—
He jumped forward and kicked out, driving his weight into the door right by the knob. With a shriek of tearing wood, the door imploded inward.
Derek stepped to the keyboard, remembering that Popovitch had a ten-digit password. He had one chance to get this right. He typed in: L-I-L-Y-R-A-B-I-N-E.
The small screen read: DEACTIVATED.
Derek breathed out in relief. That had been easy enough.
Now, the hard part. He prayed for a small miracle.
Turning, he opened the closet, pushed aside the jackets, and yanked open the small metal door to inspect the palm scanner. Reaching in his pocket, he took out a fistful of beach sand and gently blew it at the screen. A ghostly outline of a palm appeared.
He tapped the keyboard menu, heart slamming in his chest. Derek didn’t know how sophisticated Greg’s palm scanner was. At a CIA training course Derek had watched someone fool a palm scanner using melted Gummy Bears. But many of the higher-end scanners didn’t scan for fingerprints. They scanned for the blood vessels and capillaries in the palm beneath the skin. Some even took the temperature of the hand to verify that it wasn’t some sort of fake.
After what seemed like an eternity, the screen said:
WELCOME, MR. POPOVITCH.
He was in. He hoped he hadn’t used up his miracles for the day. Derek closed the battered door behind him, walked into the kitchen, and went about making a pot of coffee.
He needed a Go Pack to replace his things. Hunting through the house, he found a nylon backpack. Good enough. Scrounging through the kitchen he packed away a couple water bottles, medicines from the bathroom for a makeshift first-aid kit, a box of ammunition that would work for his Colt, and some energy bars. He found an iPod sitting on an end table. Picking it up, he clicked it on, curious to see what sorts of things Greg listened to. Lot of classic rock, country, and a little bit of jazz. He added the iPod to the backpack. What the hell. Greg didn’t need it anymore.
Derek didn’t know if Greg’s clothes would fit him or not. The shoes didn’t, but the jeans did, so he took a couple pairs, snagging a few T-shirts and sweatshirts as well.
Pouring a large mug of coffee, Derek entered Greg’s office. He figured Greg had a lot of safeguards on the computer to prevent hacking.
Opening all the drawers of the desk, he looked for a list of passwords. One of the banes of modern existence was everybody’s need to maintain a constantly shifting series of PIN numbers and passwords. Most people either made one they could remember and never changed it, or wrote them down. One study done by a computer security group found that the number one choice for passwords in the United States, used by over 70 percent of those quizzed, was PASSWORD. The number two choice was PASSWORD1. Another study indicated 12345678 was a common password. From there it went to a combination of birthdays, children’s names, and social security numbers.
Having broken into the house using Greg’s late wife’s maiden name, he doubted he would get so lucky on the computer.
Pawing through the drawers, he found a checkbook, pens, pencils and a lot of useless office detritus. He also found four small leather-bound books. Curious, he flipped through them. They were diaries. This seemed very un-Greg-like. Derek quickly realized they were old. They were labeled with four consecutive years: 1990, 1991, 1992, and 1993.
Paging through the 1991 book, he saw it was an account of Greg’s time in Iraq. Frowning, he caught mention of his name. He read the account in Greg’s broad, loopy handwriting.
I see Stillwater and O’Reilly have got a thing going. I doubt he even knows she’s married. I give Stillwater a couple more months before he gets fed up with weapon hunting. Doesn’t seem to have the patience for it. His ýing with O’Reilly probably won’t last that long, though. I had a go at her myself. She’s kind of fun in the sack, but I don’t trust her. She’s manipulative. God only knows what she must think she’s going to get out of Stillwater.
Well, Derek reflected, Greg had sure had insights about O’Reilly. He put the diaries back in the drawer. Morbid curiosity urged him to hunt through it looking for mention of himself, but he knew he wasn’t likely to find anything he would be happy reading.
Finally, Derek leaned over and turned on Greg’s computer. As he’d expected, it was password protected. He tried typing in LILYRABINE, but that didn’t get him anywhere. He tried a few other combinations, but none worked, which didn’t surprise him much. Greg must have known that if the cops or Feds got hold of his computer, it wouldn’t have taken them long to crack the password. He’d had a PDA on him, which was now a charcoal briquette. He wondered if all of Greg’s contact information had gone up in flames.
Something caught his attention. He didn’t know if it was a sixth sense, or maybe he just heard the car pull into the driveway. Derek rushed from the office to the front of the house. A white panel van was pulling into the driveway. It was followed by a black Chevy Caprice. Shit. It looked like the L.A. cops were here.
Pulling the backpack over his shoulder, he went out to meet them.
Detective Stephen Connelly stepped out of the Chevy, a grimace crossing his dark features. “Returning to the scene of the crime, Stillwater?”
Connelly’s fellow cops climbed out of the van. It was not a cheery group. Derek was pretty accustomed to that kind of reception from local law enforcement. Connelly waved at them to stay where they were. He walked toward Derek. “We’re not too happy with you, Stillwater.”
“What do you want? I’m a little busy here. You know there’s already been a terrorist attack in L.A.—”
“Yeah, you guys are doing a great job of stopping them I see.” Connelly studied Derek. “Nice job with Popovitch and his buddy. You set that house on fire? You shoot Popovitch after you fuckin’ kidnapped him?”
Derek shook his head. “I didn’t set any fire.”
“I only have to take one look at your face to see you were involved with that fire. Even if you didn’t kill Popovitch or Smith, you’re a witness. You left a goddamned crime scene.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“The fuck you don’t.” Connelly got in Derek’s face. “I tried to cooperate with you. I helped you find Popovitch. You blew this whole operation, Valentin’s still running around loose—”
“We’ve got bigger issues to—”
Connelly jabbed Derek in the chest with his finger. “No, we do not! There’s a right way and a wrong way to handle this kind of shit, and you’re doing it the wrong way.”
“Poke me again and—”
“Or what, Stillwater? I’m taking you in for questioning. I’m going to sit you in a box and make you wait around for me. And maybe we’ll forget you for a day or two.” He thumped Derek in the chest.
Derek caught Connelly’s arm, levered it backward, and dumped the L.A. detective on his ass. The other two cops raced toward them. The bucar was blocked in. Derek spun, sprinted around the side of the Malibu house, and suddenly found himself in midair. Popovitch’s beach house rested on t
he top of a high, steep bluff above the Pacific Ocean.
“Sssshhhhiiiiiiittttttt!”
He dropped into the scrub and sand on the side of the bluff, tried to stop his fall, and tumbled. Derek dug into the hillside with his heels and hands, trying to keep from rolling all the way to the bottom of the bluff. Each time he hit the ground, a cloud of dirt and dust churned upward, surrounding him. It got in his eyes and his nose and mouth, blinding and choking him.
Heart thudding, frantically scrabbling at the rocks and brush, Derek was able to stop from somersaulting to the bottom, but he wasn’t able to stop completely. In a barely controlled fall, he lunged from bush to bush and rock to rock, gaining speed. Thirty feet from the sandy beach he lost his balance and fell, spinning the remaining distance to the sand, where he thudded to a halt.