Power Down

by Ben Coes

  Fortuna dialed Karim again. No answer.

  47

  TETERBORO AIRPORT

  TETERBORO, NEW JERSEY

  The Gulfstream began its approach into the New York metropolitan area. Dewey stared at the weather radar map on the console, seeing nothing but a bright yellow blob across the entire sky. Above the clouds, at 41,000 feet, sunlight reflected off the jet. Soon, he knew, they would need to descend into the hell that was the weather below.

  The FAA had assigned a team out of New York regional to assist the pilot, Manuel, in getting the plane through the weather and down on the ground. The group included two experienced flight engineers from Gulfstream, who gave Manuel a quick tutorial on the jet’s sophisticated navigation system. He would need that to land the plane in what was zero-visibility conditions on the ground at Teterboro.

  Dewey had explained to Manuel the fact that he worked with the government and that the man in back was a terrorist. Dewey had thought the knowledge of the FBI being behind his actions might calm Manuel down, knowing that he was not going to harm him once they landed. But the knowledge seemed to have the opposite effect; Manuel’s level of stress seemed to grow with every passing minute.

  Dewey had checked on Karim twice. His mangled knee was clearly beyond repair. If the government allowed him to live, he would never walk normally again, Dewey guessed. He’d changed the terrorist’s tourniquet twice. But he didn’t put a bandage on it, or give him painkillers, even though the plane had a decent first-aid kit. Dewey wanted Karim to survive long enough to make it to the coming interrogation; he didn’t care about much else, though. For his part, Karim kept relatively quiet for the amount of pain he was suffering. A few moans when Dewey changed the tourniquet, but that was it. It was obvious to Dewey that Karim had been well trained in pain attenuation.

  As they came within a hundred miles of Teterboro, Dewey checked once again on Karim. He’d never seen eyes more black and angry in his life. The wound appeared to be going septic, so he poured some peroxide into the open gash, which caused Karim to kick weakly.

  When Dewey returned to the cockpit, the Gulfstream suddenly began its approach, and he had to grab the door jamb to keep from falling over. As he climbed back into his seat, he noticed the dank smell of perspiration. Manuel was completely soaked through his shirt, and sweat poured from his forehead and face. He had a look of terror on his face as he spoke to FAA on the mic. Dewey put his headset back on and listened in.

  “But how?” Manuel asked, fear in his voice. “If it is falling like that—”

  “Manuel,” said the voice, a woman from the FAA named Margaret Giessen, “you need to calm down. The runway is plowed, sanded, and ready for you to bring the plane down.”

  “But the accumulation’s so quick. Eight inches an hour—”

  “Is a lot of snow,” agreed Margaret. “But you will make it through fine.”

  Dewey reached out, grabbed Manuel’s headset and yanked it from his head.

  “Listen to me,” said Dewey. “You’re going to land this plane fine. Stop whining and think about flying, got it?”

  “I didn’t ask for this,” pleaded Manuel. “I fly tourists around Cuba.”

  “Tough shit. You don’t have another option. If we don’t make it, at least go down like a fucking hero.”

  Suddenly, the Gulfstream was inside the thick white of the snow and the windows went blank, the tinkling sound of ice against the window like a wind chime in a hurricane. Even Dewey had to grip the side of the chair to remain calm.

  Still, he reached out and patted Manuel on the shoulder. “What’s your favorite food, Manuel?”

  “Lobster.”

  “Good. I’m from Maine. I know lobster. I’ll tell you what. After we land, I’ll make sure someone takes you to the best seafood place in New York City. How’s that?”

  Manuel forced a grin. “Okay, okay. Let me land it now, huh?”

  “Attaboy.”

  “Approach, I have intercepted the localizer course,” said Manuel, visibly calmer, headset back on. “I need you to confirm my altitude. I know what it is but I have no concept of whether it’s correct or not.”

  “The system will tell you,” said a male voice, one of the Gulfstream engineers. “It has the approach programmed in.”

  “I know, I know. I just would also like the added confirm.”

  “Roger,” said Margaret. “You’re at two thousand, descending at three-hundred feet per minute.”

  The plane’s front window was completely white. Wet snow roiled the glass. The feeling was like being underwater. All they could see was white pounding at the window ferociously.

  “On course,” said Margaret. “Below glidescope.”

  Manuel pulled back the control column.

  “Manuel, on course, below glidescope,” said Margaret. “Now. I need you to pull that nose up. Okay, that’s it. One mile touchdown.”

  Dewey shut his eyes, preferring the blackness to the white blindness of the snow. Then, suddenly, the wheels touched down, a violent bounce, another touchdown, then a wild skid until finally the Gulfstream was halted somewhere on the snow-covered tarmac.

  “Nice landing,” Dewey said to Manuel as he stood. “Stay here, they’ll send someone to get you.”

  Dewey popped the stairs and a uniformed team of FBI agents climbed aboard. They placed Karim on a stretcher, secured his arms and legs with nylon straps, then carried him down the steps of the Gulfstream. One of the agents looked down at the eviscerated knee of the terrorist, then glanced up at Dewey. Dewey did not acknowledge the look. Another agent handed Dewey a phone.

  “Andreas,” he said.

  “It’s me,” said Jessica. “I’ve given the team commander up there orders to give you access to everything.”

  “Where are you?”

  “I’m leaving my office. I need to run by my house, then I have a chopper set to take me to New York, depending on the weather.”

  Dewey followed the team carrying Karim, walking through the driving snow. He climbed into the back of the ambulance. They moved quickly down the snow-covered tarmac to the terminal.

  “I want to be part of the team that moves on Karim’s information.”

  “I’m not sure I can do that. You might be fully capable but the problem, as you know, is that you will invariably have different protocols, movement commands, et cetera. I don’t want someone getting shot.”

  “We’re in this position because of my actions,” said Dewey. “I’m going with the team. It’s that simple.”

  At the terminal, a line of FBI agents stood outside the door, automatic weapons—HK UMPs—out and prepared to fire. Four black Suburbans and three long vans idled, loaded with teams of tactical assault specialists, waiting for information that would hopefully come from the terrorist.

  Karim was carried down the line to the glass doors of the terminal.

  “I’ll think about it,” said Jessica. “I know we’re here because of you. Have they started the pharma sequence?”

  Inside, the terminal was empty, except for an area to the left, against a far wall. It looked like an operating room. Klieg lights, four in all, were on steel stanchions that stood twenty feet high at an outer perimeter, cranked on, creating a canopy of bright white light. They illuminated a large, rectangular stainless steel operating room table. Next to the table, another table held a variety of bottles, syringes, and instruments. Two IV bags were hanging on racks next to the operating table. A pair of monitors sat on wheeled racks. Two video cameras were on tripods next to the foot of the steel O.R. table. Two nurses in blue uniforms stood next to the operating table, between them, a short, gaunt man.

  “We just walked in,” said Dewey. “I see Dr. Kevorkian though.”

  “Bismarck,” said Jessica.

  Dewey shut the phone and walked to the interrogation frame. He joined a small line of agents and a few suited FBI men, who stood to the right of the area, observing in silence.

  The agents lifted Karim from
the gurney, placed him on the steel table, strapped him down. Bismarck looked quickly at the terrorist, moving both eyelids back as the nurses ripped off the shirt and strapped monitoring probes onto his chest, then an IV into his left arm. In the bright lights, the sight of Karim’s extensive blood loss was obvious. His face appeared gray and wet with perspiration. One of the nurses looked briefly at the leg wound, but did nothing. She did a fingerprint set, then handed them to an agent, who left the area.

  Bismarck took a scalpel from the side table, severed the strip of green shirt cloth Dewey had tied around his mouth. Karim stretched his jaw, then suddenly spit squarely in Bismarck’s face.

  “You’re all going to die!” screamed Karim, his voice hoarse. “I will not talk!”

  Bismarck turned calmly to the table and picked up a small white towel, wiped his face. He nodded to an agent next to Dewey, who moved to the table. Karim continued to scream.

  “Three seconds,” Bismarck said, holding up three fingers.

  The agent pulled a Taser from his belt, then moved it against the terrorist’s neck and pulled the trigger. He held it for a three count. Karim screamed the entire time, even managing to spit again, this time hitting the agent. The agent sent another round of voltage through Karim. When the agent stopped after the second three count, Karim again began screaming.

  “Fuckers! Kill me! You think I haven’t felt this before!” He spat again at the agent, hitting him this time in the chest. The agent moved but Bismarck turned and held up his hand, stepped to the terrorist’s side. Like a knife blade, he stabbed a needle into his neck, then pushed it in. Suddenly, Karim stopped screaming. His eyes moved back into his head, and his chest and head convulsed in spasms that rocked the steel table. After a pregnant second, he screamed at a decibel level Dewey thought might crack the terminal windows.

  Bismarck moved to one of the monitors and looked at it for a few moments as Karim continued to wail in pain. Finally, when the screaming stopped, Bismarck moved to the prisoner. He stood next to Karim’s head.

  “We’re going to get along a lot better if you don’t do that,” said Bismarck.

  Karim panted, trying to catch his breath. He looked up for several seconds, then spat again, hitting Bismarck in the face. Again Bismarck emptied a syringe into his neck, and again Karim’s eyes moved back in his head, followed by screams that shook the terminal.

  Dewey stepped forward. “You’re going to kill him,” he barked at Bismarck. “We need him alive.”

  An agent stepped in front of Dewey.

  Bismarck turned.

  “Andreas? Is that right? Let me do my job and keep quiet or I’ll ask these gentlemen to escort you out.”

  Bismarck checked the monitors again. He whispered something to one of the nurses, who injected a syringe into the IV at Karim’s forearm.

  Bismarck moved to the table again. He picked up a small, thin syringe.

  “This will make you feel better,” said Bismarck to Karim. “This is something called Tocinare. It’s a psychotropic. It will not cause you pain. I don’t want to hurt you. We just want some answers. You understand?”

  “I won’t talk,” said Karim, strangely serene this time. “I was trained at Crimea. I have received this drug before. You waste your time.”

  “Trust me, you haven’t tried this one.”

  Bismarck inserted the needle into the IV line, at the forearm. Suddenly, Karim’s eyes shut. They remained shut for more than a minute. His body relaxed, limp on the table. Bismarck moved to the monitor, checked it. After what seemed like an eternity, the terrorist’s eyes opened.

  “Feel good?” asked Bismarck. “I thought you’d like that.”

  “It feels good,” said Karim. He shut his eyes again, this time for more than two minutes. Finally, Bismarck stepped from the monitors. He took hold of one of Karim’s ears, shook it. Karim opened his eyes.

  “You might have received Pentothal,” said Bismarck. “Trust me, you haven’t received what I just injected in your arm.”

  “Okay. It feels warm. Is it snowing?”

  “Yes, it is. Do you like the snow?”

  “No. I don’t.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Karim.”

  “Where are you from, Karim?”

  “Saudi Arabia. Al-Khobar, near Dhahran.”

  “Family?”

  “A sister, mother. My father died in the war against Russia.”

  “Afghanistan?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did he work Ghawar?”

  “Yes. He was a petroleum engineer.”

  “Karim, did you help to destroy Capitana?”

  Karim remained silent. His arm twitched and he suddenly shut his eyes.

  “Karim, can you answer me? Did you help to destroy the oil rig?”

  “Yes.”

  “What about the dam? Savage Island?”

  “Yes, that too.”

  “Long Beach?”

  Karim shut his eyes again.

  “Long Beach?” asked Bismarck, a hint of urgency in his voice.

  Karim remained silent.

  “Karim, I’m wondering about Long Beach. Can you help me on that one, my friend? Did you have something to do with it? Did you plan it?”

  Karim opened his eyes. He looked alert. His lips quivered ever so slightly, but no words came out.

  “I’m going to give you a different drug, if you don’t talk. It will make the feeling from the first drug go away. Do you understand? It will hurt. It will hurt more than the drug before, the one that hurt. It will hurt a lot more than that.”

  “Don’t make it go away,” said Karim.

  “Answer me.”

  “Yes, Long Beach.”

  Bismarck put his hand on the small needle, still dangling out of the IV at the terrorist’s forearm. He pressed it in, then removed it. Karim’s eyes shut, this time for several minutes. Bismarck again checked the monitors. He took another needle from the table behind him, returned, then shook Karim’s ear again, as if to wake him.

  “Feel good?”

  “Yes.”

  “Can you help me with some other questions? Just basic information?”

  “Yes, I will try.”

  “Where do you live now?”

  “Manhattan. An apartment.”

  “Are there other attacks planned?”

  “Yes, yes, of course.”

  “Many?”

  “Yes. Many.”

  “How many?”

  “Forty-one.”

  “All at once? One at a time?”

  “All at once.”

  “Detonator? Suicide?”

  “Both. Remote detonator unless we are in danger, then we set them off. We all know how.”

  “Where is the detonator?”

  Karim’s eyes grew alert. His lips quivered again, but no sound.

  “Where is it, Karim?”

  “No. I cannot say.”

  “Where is it?”

  “You can’t stop it now. We’re not trying to kill people. Infrastructure.”

  “Yes, we figured that out, Karim. I need to know where the detonator is.”

  “Which one?”

  “How many are there?”

  Karim’s chest suddenly convulsed. He squinted his eyes shut. “No,” he whispered.

  “How many?”

  “Two.”

  “Are you the leader?”

  Again, no answer.

  “What is the name of your leader?”

  Karim remained silent. Bismarck held the new needle up in front of Karim’s eyes.

  “Here comes that different drug now. You’ve left me no choice, Karim. It’s going to make the warm feeling from the first drug go away.”

  “Please, no. I will tell you.”

  “Who is your leader?”

  Karim’s lips moved again, no words. He shut his eyes. Tears ran down his cheeks.

  Bismarck stuck the small needle in the IV at the forearm. Suddenly, Karim began to convulse wild
ly, foaming at the mouth. He pushed his head up, against his restraints, banging his skull back down on the steel of the table. He repeated this several times, screaming in agony. Veins bulged at his forehead. He continued screaming and thrashing about for more than a minute. Bismarck watched the monitors. After nearly two minutes, Karim tired but still convulsed. Bismarck moved back, took another needle, stuck it into the IV. Suddenly, Karim’s eyes returned to the back of his head, then closed. Bismarck gave him less than thirty seconds before he shook him by the ear.

  “Most people are under the belief that a reliable truth serum exists,” said Bismarck, looking down into Karim’s now-tranquil eyes. “In point of fact, it’s not true. What I’ve always found to be more, shall we say . . . reliable, is the effective interchange of pain and pleasure; in this case a synthetic mixture of oxytocin and heroin, which is what you seem to be enjoying at the moment, and xylene, something most commonly found in lawn fertilizer. Clearly you don’t enjoy that one very much, Karim.”

  Karim stared up at Bismarck, completely helpless. Tears streamed down his cheeks. His eyelids drooped, then shut. Bismarck shook the Arab by the ear again.

  “Tell me, Karim, how long have you lived in the United States?”

  “Nearly twenty years.”

  “And has anyone ever tried to kill you?”

  “No.”

  “Nobody?”

  “No.”

  “So do you think it’s very kind of you to hurt our country?”

  “No.”

  “Do you know how many people you killed yesterday at Long Beach.”

  “Yes, I do. Two thousand, one hundred, and something.”

  “Two thousand, seven hundred, and seventy-one people.”

  “Yes.”

  “How many detonators are there?”

  “Two.”

  “Where are they?”

  “The apartment. The beach house.”

  “Where in the apartment? Desk? Kitchen?”

  “In an ivory box, above the fireplace.”

  “Where’s the apartment?”

  “In Manhattan.”

  “SoHo? Upper East Side? Harlem?”

  “Please kill me. I won’t harm anyone anymore.”

  “What is the address?” Bismarck asked, anger in his voice. “Where is the detonator?”