Shock Warning d-3

by Michael Walsh

  They rode largely in silence the rest of the way. The driver, having accomplished his mission of earning some money, had nothing more to say, which was just fine with Devlin. The less he had to speak the better. The more he could concentrate on the task ahead, the better. The closer he got to her, the better.

  There — up ahead. The holy city of Qom.

  Faster. Please, faster. But he could not let his impatience show. In this country, everything unfolded in Allah’s good time. It would be like raising your robe to pee.

  “I am most grateful to you, brother, for extending the generosity of your family to me. This is a kindness of which Allah would approve, for is not hospitality among the duties of every Muslim?”

  “It is indeed, brother.”

  “And does not every Muslim have the sacred obligation to repay such kindness in kind?”

  They were in the city now. Deep in an interior pocket, he could feel the Android vibrate.

  “He does, brother.”

  “Then so shall I repay you. I know not the hour, but assuredly that hour shall come.”

  “The house of my brother-in-law is not far now,” said the driver.

  “You have my security,” said Devlin, “but now I fear I must ask you a favor that no Muslim can refuse another. I wish first to be taken to the holy mosque, that I might see the wonders with my own eyes, and offer my prayers to the Twelfth Imam.”

  “Of course,” said the driver, turning right between Qom University and Mofid University and heading east.

  There, up ahead — Jamkaran.

  The specially modified Android vibrated again.

  The car pulled up near the mosque. Devlin tried to control his excitement as he made his dignified and stately way from the car. “In the name of Allah, I thank you, brother.”

  “And I you, pilgrim,” scribbling down an address. “Give this to anyone in town and they will direct you to the home of Mohammed Radan.”

  Devlin took the piece of paper with great dignity. “Go in peace. And now, I, too, must go.”

  “May peace attend you, brother,” said the driver.

  Start your engine. Go in peace, go with God — but go.

  At last, after God’s own eternity, the car swung north and disappeared.

  Devlin ducked into an alley and bowed, as if he were reciting a prayer before approaching the mosque. In his crouch he was able to see his messages:

  The first was from Seelye. He read the instructions and permitted himself a small moment of triumph. If he knew his man, Skorzeny, he was way ahead on that one already; the STUXNET virus he could use for backup.

  He read the second message — it was from her.

  HELP

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  Tehran

  “I am sorry, but Col. Zarin is in Qom. And no infidel may travel to the holy city. It is the law.”

  Skorzeny was not used to being refused. He looked at the customs functionary standing before him in his comic-opera uniform and said: “It is not the law.”

  “I am sorry, but for you, on this day, it is the law.” The man turned to Mlle. Derrida. “For you too as well, missus.”

  “I’m nobody’s missus,” she replied in French.

  The customs man grinned and spoke to her in rapid-fire French. There began a prolonged prattle that lasted until Skorzeny could stand it no longer. “Please,” he said in English. “I have important business.”

  The customs official once again made a great pretense of studying their travel documents. He double-checked whether the exit visas from Azerbaijan were in order (they were) and whether the proper visas had been obtained for entry into the Islamic Republic (they were as well). He could find nothing wrong with the legal formalities.

  “I am happy to tell you that your documents are completely satisfactory. Now, what is your permanent address in Tehran and on what business do you journey here?”

  “For the last time,” said Skorzeny, “we are here at the personal invitation of Col. Navid Zarin of the Revolutionary Guards. I understand that he is in Qom, and so it is to Qom that we must go. Therefore I would appreciate it if you stamp our papers with the appropriate stamp and let us be on our way.”

  The man look chagrined. Disconsolate. “I am sorry, mister, but this thing is not allowed to be done at the present time. Perhaps inshallah things will change in the coming days. But for right now, no.”

  “I would like to speak with your superior. Is that possible?”

  “Yes, of course, sir. I will summon him in this moment.” The man pressed an emergency buzzer under the customs table. “See, he comes now.”

  “Thank you,” said Skorzeny, walking over to meet him.

  The customs official looked at Mlle. Derrida. “What brings you to the Islamic Republic, missus?” he asked. “It is a very great honor for me to meet so fine a lady.”

  “Have you read La Disparition by Perec?” she asked.

  “No, missus — should I?”

  “You might want to consider it,” she said.

  Skorzeny was on his way back. “Let’s go,” he said, holding out his hand for their passports.

  “Is everything now in order, mister?” asked the customs man.

  “Indeed,” said Skorzeny, taking Mlle. Derrida by the arm and leading her away. As they walked they could hear the superior shouting at the customs man, whose life was about to become very unpleasant.

  “I wouldn’t want to be in that little fellow’s shoes,” said Mlle. Derrida. “I told him he should take off and vanish like the letter e, but I guess he thought I was kidding.”

  “More likely he was entranced by your beauty, cold though it is,” retorted Skorzeny. He pointed to a black limousine with its engine idling in front of the terminal. No terrorism worries here, he thought to himself — what would they be afraid of? Irish nuns? The Swedish Bikini Team?

  They got into the backseat. The driver stubbed out his cigarette and the car pulled away from the curb, darting right into the traffic flow without so much as a backward glance.

  “What did you say to him?” asked Mlle. Derrida.

  “Nothing. I paid him.”

  “And he got the message?”

  “Money speaks a universal language, Mlle. Derrida, especially when wedded to fear.”

  He pressed a button and the partition slid into place. The car would be bugged, of course, but at least they could pretend they didn’t know that. To make their conversation a little more secure, Skorzeny switched to Russian, which Mlle. Derrida, being Polish on her mother’s side, also spoke fluently.

  “The colonel was suddenly called away to Qom. This in itself is not surprising, since Qom is, as the Americans say, where the action is going to be. Which means, judging from his behavior, that Miss Harrington is also in Qom. How, I don’t know, but she always was a very resourceful woman. I admire her pluck and her savvy. Nevertheless, she must be forced to admit once more the error of her ways.”

  “Which means?”

  “Which means that I cannot let the Iranians have their way with her. If there is any punishment to be meted out, I should do the meting. I cannot bear the thought of these animals’ hands on her.”

  “Nor can I,” said Mlle. Derrida. Was that a quizzical look from him? But desire and empathy knew no bounds.

  “And, of course, we have other work to do. Important work. My life’s work, in fact. How I wish to share it with her, to have her witness the moment of my greatest triumph. Then, and only then, I will kill her for the grievous harm she has done to me.”

  Mlle. Derrida raised an objection. “To kill her, you’re going to have to convince them to let you have her. And why should they? You’ve already cheated them out of Maryam. It seems to me, M. Skorzeny, that your Col. Zarin is going to be very unhappy with you.” A thought struck her. “What if he is using us as pawns as well? What use to him are you — alone, in his country and in his power?” She was beginning to be frightened now. “Why should he let us go? Why not hold us hostage, for
ransom?” She started to sob quietly. France was never so beautiful.

  Skorzeny put his arm around her, and she did not object. Ordinarily she hated it when he touched her, but things were different now.

  But what if she was right? Of Zarin’s loyalties he was fairly certain, because there was a very sizable bank account waiting for him in the Caymans, but in this part of the world one never knew. Zarin could double-cross him out of some misguided religious fervor. The mullahs could be holding his family hostage. There could be some residual anger over Kohanloo, although he could point out that Kohanloo’s name never surfaced in the inquiry and that the Islamic Republic was in no way implicated in the attack on Times Square. Anything was possible.

  That was where Devlin came in. The man had been fool enough to entrust his computer to maid Maryam, rigging it to harm Skorzeny. But he had no intention of having the accursed thing explode in his face, either literally or figuratively. He had a better plan.

  He would trade it for Miss Harrington.

  Let the Iranians have it. Let them deal with it. Whatever damage it was programmed to do to him and his financial empire, it would have no effect on them. They could take it apart, reverse-engineer it, break right into the heart of the Black Widow back in Fort Meade, worm their way into the highest levels of NSA and CSS cryptology, and destroy the Americans from within. They could not hope to defeat them on the field of battle, and even public opinion was finally beginning to turn against them, as the pet media poodles — who leapt to the defense of any “oppressed minority,” no matter how unoppressed, vindictive, or malicious they in fact actually were — finally began to notice that their own necks were being sized for the chopping block.

  His hand moved to the briefcase, in which he kept the computer, as if to reassure himself that it was still there.

  “It’s all right,” he said. “Trust me.”

  Only two things mattered to him now. The first was the full realization of his great vision: the setting-off of the great religious and cultural war that would finally destroy the West, and all that he asked was a moment of revelation at the end, a moment when the people of the West would look at him and see the man who put finally them out of their misery.

  The second was Miss Harrington. She must share in his apotheosis, and then expiate her sins.

  We are discovered. Save yourself. How perfectly apposite, how resonant. One link in the chain of doom.

  There was Qom, dead ahead.

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  New York City

  The sun rose, clear and bright. The October sky had kicked away the clouds and left the heavens azure — the perfect setting for a great miracle.

  She appeared over Manhattan, nearer the East River than the Hudson, but visible from Queens and Brooklyn and Jersey, too, hovering with that same ineffable look of sadness on her face. It was the same vision the children at Garabandal had seen, the Muslims and Christians and Jews and the international news media at Zeitoun had seen. The same image that the poor Nigerians had seen, before they went at each other with weapons, before the long-standing conflicts of East and West, of the dar al-Islam and the dar al-Harb, had finally come into irrevocable conflict. Before war broke out in the Philippines.

  And now she was here, floating above the capital city of the infidels.

  It wasn’t like in the movies. Taxis did not suddenly slam on the brakes and cause multiple-car pileups. Women did not start screaming on the sidewalk. Whole office buildings did not suddenly empty and people did not rush into the streets or to the tops of tall buildings. Instead, they looked out their windows, or up at the sky, and wondered.

  Many, maybe most, did not credit their senses. It had to be some kind of hoax, an optical illusion. Others blessed themselves and prayed. The city’s large Hispanic community was especially devotional. Someone set up a makeshift altar in the middle of Flatbush Avenue, and thousands of devout Haitians attended Mass on the spot.

  The cardinal archbishop of New York took to the Fifth Avenue steps of St. Patrick’s Cathedral and urged calm. So did the mayor, from his private island in the Caribbean, where he was vacationing with his mistress. The cable channels put the vision in a box and kept it on the screen at all times. Live cams streamed the image via the blogosphere across the globe.

  The image took shape high in the sky in the early morning. At first it looked like nothing, mere light among light in the sky. Gradually, however, it began to assume human form. It took a while for everyone to realize that slowly, imperceptibly, it was gradually moving toward the earth, growing larger as it came into view. The progress was very slow, but it was steady. The Virgin was descending toward the earth.

  Lannie Saleh, Celina Selena, and Alonzo Schmidt saw none of this. Dr. Leopold had given them carte blanche to inspect the hospital and had assigned a few trusted people to act as point men. They had to tear the place apart without alarming anybody.

  “It needs a power source,” Lannie was explaining. “These things can’t work without electricity, without something to act as the trigger. The good news is, it doesn’t seem to be attached to one. The bad news is, it may not need to be. Some of the Russian designs have a transmitter that signals when its internal battery runs low and it’s thought — remember, until today, we had no proof that such devices even existed, except for the testimony of a Russian defector — that it can somehow be powered externally—”

  “It can.”

  Everyone turned to see the speaker. It was Tom Byrne, accompanied by Principessa Stanley.

  Tom moved to the front with the ease of a natural leader. “Thanks, Lannie,” he said. “I’ll take it from here.”

  “What’s she doing here?” objected Lannie.

  “She’s getting the story,” replied Tom. “You got a problem with that?” He turned to the group. “We know that a psychopath named Raymond Crankheit left some sort of device in the hospital during the attack on New York. We also know that this same psychopath attacked Ms. Stanley here, buried her alive behind the Metropolitan Museum, and damn near scalped her. If anybody deserves to be in on the finish, it’s she. So that’s the last I want to hear about it.”

  “Who are you?” asked Celina.

  “I am Thomas Byrne, deputy director of the FBI. And these are my people.” Into the room came a dozen special agents, each one looking exactly (as Celina Selena admitted to herself later) the way everyone pictured an FBI special agent looking. “These men and women are trained in this, and they’ll find the bomb. That’s not my worry. My worry is that the bomb will find us first.”

  “But what about the trigger?” asked Lannie.

  “Come with me, please,” said Tom. Then, turning to his team: “Get started. From the rate of descent, it looks like we have five, maybe six hours.”

  He left Principessa behind with the bomb squad and led Lannie, Celina, and Alonzo out onto the street and pointed to the sky. Celina gasped and crossed herself. “Damn,” muttered Alonzo. Lannie didn’t know what to say.

  “She may look like the Virgin freaking Mary,” said Tom, “but she’s our trigger. She’s a holographic laser projection coming from the surface of the moon — no, it’s not originating there, little green men aren’t attacking. It’s a relay from the reflector shields the Apollo astronauts left behind, back in the days when this country actually got a bang for its buck, instead of just spreading the wealth around and pissing it away. She’s coming not to save humanity but to blow the shit out of the city of New York. And that’s just not going to fucking happen.”

  “How do we stop it?” asked Lannie.

  “We don’t.”

  “What?” said Celina.

  At that moment, a car pulled up in front of the hospital. A man and a woman got out. Celina recognized the man right away.

  The man walked right up to the group, like he was used to being in charge.

  “Hello, boss,” said Lannie.

  “Hello, Frankie,” said Tom Byrne. “Keeping that temper of yours in check?”<
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  “Cut the crap, Tom,” said Francis Byrne. “We’re only working together because we have to. Because you fucked me and turned one of my best men against me. Because you ran out on our city and took your fancy job in Washington while I’ve stayed here, year in and year out.”

  “Great job you did last year,” said Tom. “How many people died again?”

  And then he was on the seat of his pants on the sidewalk, his jaw smarting from the blow his younger brother had just delivered. “Say that again and I’ll shoot you myself, right here, in front all these witnesses. I’ll go to jail for murder, because I won’t miss and you know I won’t miss. And not even your boy Saleh here will try and stop me.”

  Frankie turned to Lannie. His eyes reflected the pain of betrayal. “I knew it was you, Lannie. What I don’t know is why.”

  “I was just… just trying…” He looked over to Tom to help him out. “He’s your brother isn’t he? They’re threatening my family, Frankie.”

  “We’re your family, too, Lannie,” said Frankie. “That’s what I’ve been trying to make you understand. That’s why I took your ass off the streets of Brooklyn and made a detective out of you. I saw me in you, kid — this is New York, and we all need a rabbi. We’re all tribes here in New York, but the thing that made this city great is that the tribes learned to work with each other, learned to embrace each other — they realized that tribes are just like individuals, and that while you can’t choose your tribe, you can choose to make a new family. That’s what we all did, the Irish, the Jews, the Italians. It’s why Sy Sheinberg was a father to me, after my father — our father, Tommy — was shot down from behind in cold blood and they never found the killers. I’ve been looking for those fucking dirtbags all my life and you know what? I’m never going to find them, but I’m going to die trying. I thought I was a father to you, Lannie, just the way Sy Sheinberg was my father. Ethnicity doesn’t mean shit. Somebody’s threatening you or your family, then they’re threatening my family, too, and in New York that means I have a license to fuck them up two times — once because they’ve got it coming and twice just for laughs. Because this is my town, and I’m still the sheriff.”