The Architect of Revenge: A September 11th Novel

by T. Ainsworth

  Jericho felt for the tote bag hanging on the back of her chair. Concealed inside was her real world. In recent years, she was authorized to carry a handgun. The titanium hammerless .38 Special had no safety and held five hollow-point rounds. An FBI agent trained her until she could rapidly empty all the chambers into a plate-sized target at twenty feet.

  You look like a great guy, she wanted to say, but instead she shook her head in discouragement. In another life she might have been flattered, and interested—but not now. The secrets she carried made her suspect of anyone without a formal introduction. Distrust had to be paramount.

  The man went back to his meal. Jericho thought about her day as she had more wine.

  “This image was run through FBI, Interpol, Mossad…essentially every database,” Fields had said. “The software applies a Wilcoxin Ranks Test. The significance level between this picture and any others on file is 0.0005.”

  “Whatever,” said Rushworth.

  Meet your new ghost, Jericho wanted to say.

  “The hair fiber in the jeans pocket is nothing more than contaminant…Sus Scrofa,” said Fields. When he saw their confused faces, he added a smile. “Wild Eurasian boar.”

  “A closet ham eater,” somebody joked.

  Jericho’s dinner arrived. A few bites offered a brief reprieve before her rehash of the meeting continued.

  “Local FBI in Houston dispatched an agent to Puss ‘n Boots,” said Fields.

  Rushworth glared when he used the name.

  “None of the dancers remembered anybody that night, until I think one girl recalled a bald black man who ponied up a galling one-dollar tip.”

  Rushworth listened unamused but Jericho agreed silently the amount was scandalous.

  “Then there’s the report of a security guard at the port discovering a worker who was passed out in his diesel pickup truck that night. The cowboy couldn’t remember much. With beer soaking everything in the cab, he didn’t even know how he got back to the port. He had run into these fellows earlier at the port and again at the club. He tried to describe them, but his recollection became a hodgepodge of confusion as he tried to recall what happened next.”

  Fields quoted part of the transcript verbatim with the impromptu editing of the profanity.

  “‘Man! When I woke up, my side hurt worse than when my mama paddled my butt. A hangover never hurt so bad. Lost my damn Colt Python that night. That gun cost me a lot of money!’”

  Fields looked at the group. “Took him a week to realize the pistol was missing…along with fifty rounds. Cowboy did say it was registered.”

  Months later the ATF still hadn’t found the paperwork.

  Rushworth couldn’t dignify a response.

  “I know who has it,” said Jericho beneath her breath while she reached for her wine.

  The absurdity would be humorous if it weren’t so serious. The whole government seemed to exist in a state of restrained confusion—except for the military when it was finally given the order to attack.

  Jericho rolled the wine around her mouth, examining the lingering flavors before her thoughts returned to the meeting.

  “Does anybody have an inkling who this Ali person is?” asked Rushworth.

  Fields spoke. “All sources are quiet.”

  “Even our guests at Gitmo?”

  Fields shook his head demonstratively.

  “We’ve spent an inordinate amount of committee time discussing this man,” said Rushworth. “Nothing presented so far suggests he’s a credible risk for right now, so finding out more is the job for the FBI.” Her facial expression gave the order before the gavel hit the block. “I’m putting this item in Old Business.”

  Heads nodded.

  Rushworth looked hard at Jericho. “Commander, anything new about those cargo containers?”

  “Still looking for them, Madame Chair,” the officer said crisply.

  “Let us know—only—if you get new intel,” Rushworth said. “While you’re at it, keep looking for Sayyaf’s cane,” she commanded.

  Jericho’s cell phone vibrated and hummed on the tablecloth. She was glad to get Rushworth’s temperament out of her brain. A headache was already on the way.

  “Hey, Lainey! How are you tonight?”

  On an unencrypted line, she knew any specifics would be talked around. Jericho waved over the waiter.

  “The bill please,” she whispered, then said, “Good evening, Cotty.”

  “Great party today, don’t you think?” he asked.

  Jericho wasn’t impressed he felt that way during the meeting. Every time their eyes met, his aggravation worsened hers.

  “The best ever,” she said.

  Maybe it was the wine, but Jericho was too tired to play along.

  “Glad you had a good time!” By the gusto in his voice, he was enjoying the exchange. “I’m going out of town again,” he said. “Are you willing to play with my friends in the sandbox?”

  “Oh sure,” Jericho had to say yes, with regret.

  “I’ll have the guest list updated for the next luncheon.”

  By now she’d had enough chatting. It was time to wind it up. “Say, Cotty?”

  “Yeah, darlin’.”

  “Do you think it’s all right if I keep the library book checked out a while longer?”

  “I don’t think the school would mind for now,” he answered. “Don’t go overboard,” he laughed at the inside joke, “or neglect your other studies.”

  “Okay.” Jericho said. “Good night, Grandpa.”

  “Give my love to your husband and kiss the little ones for me,” he replied.

  The connection ended.

  In her dreams…

  Wine was the lousiest sleep aid in the world. Jericho woke with a headache from a mistake she rarely made. Her misery compounded when she recalled that before even getting the admiral’s okay to dabble a bit more in her research, she had asked Glen Sorenson for help. The request probably bordered on illegal, but she needed his data-mining expertise.

  “This is all I want you to do, Glen,” she had said, withholding more details, while hoping his efforts would never be uncovered.

  When Jericho arrived at the NGA, Sorenson was snoring facedown at his workstation, his glasses resting on the keyboard. Zamani saw her approach the young analyst.

  “Pulled an all-nighter, Elaine,” Z said, never using her first name unless he was certain he wouldn’t be overheard. “Working the keys, smoking data for you. I offered to help, but he wanted to do it himself. Kid’s got pride.”

  “Pardon me?” she asked. “He was here all night?”

  “Began right after his shift. Wanted it done before this morning.”

  “Seriously?” she asked.

  “Sure enough,” he said.

  Zamani was about to nudge Sorenson, but Elaine’s hand stopped him.

  “Let him be. You go home.”

  Jericho gave a motherly smile to the man whose wavy long brown hair looked like a tangled mop. He also needed to get a life outside of work. She found him some coffee, placed the cup near his nose, and she went to her office.

  Soon there was a knock.

  “Morning, Commander Jericho!” Sorenson greeted her with the steaming cup in hand. Even with the wrinkled shirt and vestiges of a beard, he acted better than she felt.

  “Why didn’t you go home?” she asked.

  “Was mining your data. It was fun. Great challenge! I learned a lot!”

  Jericho felt even worse. Now, however, it was her stomach and not her head.

  “It wasn’t an emergency,” she reiterated, knowing Glen had either missed that point or, more likely, didn’t care. She couldn’t help but admire his dedication while at the same time pray his after-hours foray would never be appreciated for what it was.

  “No worries, ma’am. Like to see it?”

  “Of course.”

  “Come back to my cube when you’ve got time.”

  Jericho followed. He got her a chair, which s
he pulled close then crossed her legs—a brief but pleasing diversion.

  “There were a trillion data points, but man…the server is fast!”

  Keys clicked, the mouse moved. The caffeine had found his brain. He grinned his playful smile.

  “I had backpacks from everywhere,” he exclaimed, displaying the entries. “So I added all the adjectives I could think to describe its functions and did what geeks do: surfed the web to find wilderness outfitting equipment. Check this out! The bag!”

  He grinned again.

  “Ballistic nylon…an inside volume of a carry-on suitcase—and…doesn’t sink!”

  He turned toward her.

  “Why this one, you ask? Because it has an inner bladder and double zipper! Completely waterproof!”

  “Glen…” She tried to contain what little enthusiasm she had. There wasn’t much to the discovery. “Any ardent hiker could have that.”

  “True. But this one fits the exact profile of the bag on your guy’s back. So I worked my sources…” He bit his lip. “Err…”

  “Skip the details.”

  “Thanks. Let’s just say I chewed through some serious electrons, looking at newspapers, news programs…boatload of bananas.” His fingers never stopped moving on the keys. “I boiled the hits to less than a hundred and sieved through each manually.”

  Sorenson enlarged the grayscale picture showing the backside of a man with a baseball cap, short hair, and a backpack.

  “This one fits the parameters, and…this dude’s boarding a bus on a route that goes to the port…in the correct time window.”

  She shrugged and started to stand.

  “I have more,” he added, holding her wrist. Immediately looking contrite, he pulled his hand back. “Sorry for touching you, ma’am.”

  “Glen, lighten up.” A warm smile. “Tell me.”

  “I reconstructed the image…more 3-D-like.” Triumphantly, Sorenson leaned back in his chair. “That backpack and the one on the freighter stern are identical.” He hadn’t quit until the job was done. “This bag was also photographed at a Bush airport bus stop with the same guy, shades and all.”

  She put her hand on his shoulder. “How was this taken?”

  “From an uncovered parking lot security cam.”

  Date, time, and a device number were displayed in the upper right corner as he beamed.

  “Let me know whether you need anything else. Day’s young.”

  Amazed, she said, “Glen, you do good work.” His efforts were faultless. “Very good work.” She stepped back to salute. “Thank you, Mr. Sorenson!”

  “Here.” He handed her a jump drive.

  “Glen…”

  “Ma’am?”

  “Don’t keep any files.”

  “Already taken care of.”

  Sorenson’s passion for a challenge was impressive—his devotion to her equally so.

  Jericho left his cubicle feeling ill. This surreptitious research had gone way past the purview of what she was entitled to request or do. Using domestic surveillance data to scrutinize the activities of people on American soil—gathered by an analyst under her tutelage—brought her close to a court-martial and prison. Sorenson could end up there too. That anxiety made her headache worse.

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  Aboard the Khyber Mail Express Mid-November 2003

  The sudden pitch jarred Morgan awake, jerking his body back and forth. Wedged between the end of the upholstered bench and Omar, the last thing he remembered was the clickety-clack of the rails luring him to unconsciousness. Moments earlier, it seemed, the horizontal sunlight was streaming through the dirty window, illuminating a scene of upside-down automobiles, pale billboards, and long shadows. The blackness of the glass window reflected Nadia’s face gazing outward in her usual trance. Seductive Lahore belonged to his past, and now there was only countryside. Seconds passed before Morgan was oriented. He felt for the satchel.

  The strap was still over his shoulder.

  A prickle crawled up his back from the cold air. At Omar’s insistence Morgan was with them in first class, being ferried to Peshawar. Controlled by his host, who was really his custodian, the journey was Omar’s final gesture of largesse before Morgan was taken to the frontier as another fresh offering destined for martyrdom.

  He looked at Omar in his black salwar kameez. His expensive watch and shoes were left at his home in Lahore.

  “Best to be like a chameleon and not invite disapproving eyes of clerics,” he’d said at the train station.

  His muted attire clashed with Nadia, who stood beside him like a bright flower. The courtesan’s canary yellow sarong and red dupatta couldn’t temper the brilliance of her gold and diamond necklace, nor could it eclipse the tasseled saffron purse and Louis Vuitton suitcase.

  Over the weeks Morgan’s fondness for the oddball human had grown, in contrast to her vain keeper, who, as the genial tour guide, had dragged him by day throughout Lahore to look at monuments and mosques, only to abandon him in the sitting room of his home to wait until his return from the theater, when they would indulge in another caloric meal and dessert. Morgan knew after his first evening that the red carpet would eventually be yanked away.

  Seeing him stir on the bench, Omar leaned toward him with narrow eyes.

  “Barif, you whisper the name Cay when you sleep.”

  Morgan held a stone face as Omar’s cheeks inflated with his smile.

  “To dream of lying with virgins in Paradise…”

  With drawn eyelids Omar took a deep breath. Pretending to be enthralled by the scent of perfume, his chest and head slowly rose together and he said, “You will have a full stomach too. The champli kabobs in Peshawar are world renowned. We will have them this evening—”

  Bang! Bang! Bang!

  Their heads shot forward as the air brakes crushed against the wheels. A piercing screech enveloped them as metal ground to metal.

  Just as suddenly, their bodies pushed back into the upholstery. The train shuddered, slid, and stopped.

  Blasting caps, Morgan knew. Three in a row…

  It was the universal railroad warning. A problem lay ahead—unusual for a well-traveled rail line, even at night.

  Morgan listened, trying to hear through the porters’ clamor as they leaned out the open platform doors to look.

  The hammering volley swept from the engine to the last car. Part of their glass window shattered, showering glass throughout the compartment. When the spew of bullets paused so the users could load new magazines, anguished screams came from the porters dying on the ground. Shrieks swelled from every car.

  Fresh clatter silenced the engineers in the front.

  “Dacoits,” Omar whispered.

  Morgan knew bandits robbed even the Khyber Mail. They’d start in first class with the wealthy passengers, move toward the rear, then escape. Anyone resisting along the way would be shot without hesitation. The entire affair would last only minutes.

  Morgan heard radio chatter outside and tried to count the number of voices.

  Four?

  From a different angle a machine gun shattered another window.

  No. Maybe six.

  Omar reached above and removed Nadia’s suitcase from the rack. He handed it to Morgan.

  “Open it,” he said, “quickly.”

  Wrapped in the linen napkin, it felt familiar. Morgan loaded the revolver just as the lights went out. Rough voices entered the front of the train car.

  Morgan dropped the suitcase next to the floor and pushed it closer to Omar with his foot. Neither Omar nor Nadia saw Morgan’s left arm, hand, and gun retract inside his kameez. The sleeve hung limp, like an amputee. Sucking saliva, he let it drool out his mouth and started to spastically convulse his torso.

  Omar reached down for the suitcase.

  A violent kick pushed open the compartment door. Two masked men dressed in black crowded inside, both gripping Russian Makarovs. The reliable nine-millimeter pistols were cocked. The second man used
a flashlight to study Morgan’s contorting wet face then looked at Nadia. Omar remained bent over.

  With the gun pressed into Omar’s neck the first dacoit said into a radio, “Almost done in this car.”

  A coarse voice responded. “We’re moving back.”

  The second dacoit barked at Nadia. “Get up.”

  Trembling with fear, she stood up. The necklace sparkled.

  “Give it to me,” he ordered.

  She raised a hand to curse him.

  The side of the flashlight smashed her face. She collapsed, coughing weakly. The clasp broke as she fell away.

  “Nadia!” cried Omar, moving toward her.

  Bang!

  The Makarov fired, splattering most of Omar’s neck to the floor. With his head dangling by a few remnants of muscle, the caged blast startled both robbers. They stared at the spurting blood as the body tumbled over.

  Morgan trained the barrel of the cocked .357 at an upward angle and pulled the trigger.

  The high-velocity bullet entered the flank of the closer dacoit. Still accelerating, the jacketed mass of energy exited unabated and tore through the heart of the other man. The lead-and-copper fragment finally stopped in the wood panel near the window.

  Both men crumpled onto Omar, making the floor a heap of bloody bodies.

  A hail of bullets pulverized what remained of the window. Morgan covered Nadia from the flying glass shards, grabbed one of the Makarovs, and dropped the revolver into the satchel.

  Over the radio the same voice asked, “Are you okay, Shabir?”

  Morgan shouted with a garbled voice, “Found much money!”

  He shoved the bodies aside to get the suitcase, opened it quickly, and felt around inside. There was clothing but not his passport.

  Waving the flashlight for an instant outside the smashed window, Morgan shouted, “Come! Get the case! I’ll throw it to you.”

  Morgan peeked out the frame at the approaching man.

  “Here!” Morgan shouted, heaving the suitcase toward him. As the man bent to pick it up, two rounds from Morgan’s Makarov found their target.

  Morgan took the radio then padded down the dead dacoits. Each man carried a grenade and a second magazine. After checking the pins, Morgan put the grenades in his satchel. He swapped the used magazine for a fresh one and crammed the other full one in his waistband.